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ENDOWED  BY  THE 
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Romola 

Photogravure.  — From  Painting  by  W.  St,  John  Harpei 


Romola 

Silas  Marner 


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EDITION  DE  L  UXE 

This  edition  of  the  works  of 
George  Eliot,  printed  for 

SUBSCRIBERS  ONLY,  IS  LIMITED  TO  ONE 
THOUSAND  NUMBERED  SETS,  OF 


WHICH  THIS  IS 


^  ^ 


Co  tf)e  J&usband 

WHOSE  PERFECT  LOVE  HAS  BEEN  THE  BEST  SOURCE  OF  HEP 
INSIGHT  AND  STRENGTH, 

THIS  MS.  IS  GIVEN 

BY  HIS  DEVOTED  WIFE, 

THE  WRITER. 


j 


CONTENTS 


Pags 

PllOEM .  3 

3S00k  I. 

Chapteb 

I.  The  Shipwkecked  Stranger . 12 

II.  Breakfast  for  Love . 27 

III.  The  Barber’s  Shop  . . 32 

IV.  First  Impressions . 44 

V.  The  Blind  Scholar  and  his  Daughter . 48 

VI.  Dawning  Hopes  .  63 

VII.  A  Learned  Squabble . 81 

VIII.  A  Face  in  the  Crowd . 87 

IX.  A  Man’s  Ransom . 101 

X.  Under  the  Plane-Tree . 109 

XI.  Tito’s  Dilemma . 122 

XII.  The  Prize  is  nearly  Grasped . 126 

XIII.  The  Shadow  of  Nemesis . 140 

XIV.  The  Peasants’  Fair  . 148 

XV.  The  Dying  Message . 164 

XVI.  A  Florentine  Joke . 173 

XVII.  Under  the  Loggia . 188 

XVIII.  The  Portrait . 195 

XIX.  The  Old  Man’s  Hope . 202 

XX.  The  Day  of  the  Betrothal . 206 

B00k  II. 

XXI.  Florence  expects  a  Guest . 217 

XXII.  The  Prisoners . 225 

XXIII.  After-Thoughts . 23.3 

XXIV.  Inside  the  Duomo  .  .  .' . 237 

XXV.  Outside  the  Duomo .  244 


VI 


CONTENTS. 


Chapteb  Paob 

XXVI.  The  Garment  of  Fear  .  . . 249 

XXVII.  The  Young  Wife . 255 

XXVIII,  The  Painteu  Record . 266 

XXIX.  A  Moment  of  Triumph . 272 

XXX.  The  Avenger’s  Secret . 279 

XXXI.  Fruit  is  Seed . 290 

XXXII.  A  Revelation . 295 

XXXIII.  Bald  ASS  ARRE  makes  an  AcquAiNTANCE . 306 

XXXIV.  No  Place  for  Repentance . 315 

XXXV.  What  Florence  was  thinking  of . 328 

XXXVI.  Ariadne  Discrowns  Herself . 332 

XXXVII.  The  Tabernacle  Unlocked . 344 

KXXVIII.  The  Black  Marks  become  Magical  .....  348 

XXXIX.  A  Supper  in  the  Rucellai  Gardens . 355 

XL.  An  Arresting  Voice . 374 

XLI.  Coming  Back  . . 383 

Booh  III. 

XLII.  Romola  in  her  Place . 387 

XLIII,  The  Unseen  Madonna . 395 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


ROMOLA. 

VoL.  I. 

Page 

Romol*. . Frontispiece 

Savomabola  .  . .  ...  340 

VoL.  II. 

The  Visible  Madonna . 6 

Niccol6  Macchiavelli . 118 

At  the  Well . 183 


SILAS  MARNER. 

Silas  Makneb  and  Efpie . 318 


ROMOLA. 


» .f  •' 


■A' 


< 


I 


/ 


ROMOLA. 


PKOEM. 

More  than  three  centuries  and  a  half  ago,  in  the  mid 
springtime  of  1492,  we  are  sure  that  the  angel  of  the  dawnj 
as  he  travelled  with  broad  slow  wing  from  the  Levant  to 
the  Pillars  of  Hercules,  and  from  the  summits  of  the  Caucasus 
across  all  the  snowy  Alpine  ridges  to  the  dark  nakedness  of 
the  Western  isles,  saw  nearly  the  same  outline  of  firm  land 
and  unstable  sea  —  saw  the  same  great  mountain  shadows  on 
the  same  valleys  as  he  has  seen  to-day  —  saw  olive  mounts, 
and  pine  forests,  and  the  broad  plains  green  with  young  corn 
or  rain-freshened  grass  —  saw  the  domes  and  spires  of  cities 
rising  by  the  river-sides  or  mingled  with  the  sedge-like  masts 
on  the  many -curved  sea-coast,  in  the  same  spots  where  they 
rise  to-day.  And  as  the  faint  light  of  his  course  pierced  into 
the  dwellings  of  men,  it  fell,  as  now,  on  the  rosy  warmth  of 
nestling  children;  on  the  haggard  waking  of  sorrow  and  sick¬ 
ness  ;  on  the  hasty  uprising  of  the  hard-handed  laborer ;  and 
on  the  late  sleep  of  the  night-student,  who  had  been  question¬ 
ing  the  stars  or  the  sages,  or  his  own  soul,  for  that  hidden 
knowledge  which  would  break  through  the  barrier  of  man’s 
brief  life,  and  show  its  dark  path,  that  seemed  to  bend  no- 
whither,  to  be  an  arc  in  an  immeasurable  circle  of  light  and 
glory.  The  great  river-courses  which  have  shaped  the  lives  of 
men  have  hardly  changed ;  and  those  other  streams,  the  life- 
currents  that  ebb  and  flow  in  human  hearts,  pulsate  to  the 
same  great  needs,  the  same  great  loves  and  terrors.  As  our 
thought  follows  close  in  the  slow  wake  of  the  dawn,  we  are 


4 


ROMOLA. 


impressed  with  the  broad  sameness  of  the  human  lot,  which 
never  alters  in  the  main  headings  of  its  history  —  hunger  and 
labor,  seed-time  and  harvest,  love  and  death. 

Even  if,  instead  of  following  the  dim  daybreak,  our  imagi¬ 
nation  pauses  on  a  certain  historical  spot  and  awaits  the  fuller 
morning,  we  may  see  a  world-famous  city,  which  has  hardly 
changed  its  outline  since  the  days  of  Columbus,  seeming  to 
stand  as  an  almost  un violated  symbol,  amidst  the  flux  of  hu¬ 
man  things,  to  remind  us  that  we  still  resemble  the  men  of 
the  past  more  than  we  differ  from  them,  as  the  great  mechani¬ 
cal  principles  on  which  those  domes  and  towers  were  raised 
must  make  a  likeness  in  human  building  that  will  be  broader 
and  deeper  than  all  possible  change.  And  doubtless,  if  the 
spirit  of  a  Florentine  citizen,  whose  eyes  were  closed  for  the 
last  time  while  Columbus  was  still  waiting  and  arguing  for  the 
three  poor  vessels  with  which  he  was  to  set  sail  from  the  port 
of  Palos,  could  return  from  the  shades  and  pause  where  our 
thought  is  pausing,  he  would  believe  that  there  must  still  be 
fellowship  and  understanding  for  him  among  the  inheritors  of 
his  birthplace. 

Let  us  suppose  that  such  a  Shade  has  been  permitted  to 
revisit  the  glimpses  of  the  golden  morning,  and  is  standing 
once  more  on  the  famous  hill  of  San  Miniato,  which  overlooks 
Florence  from  the  south. 

The  Spirit  is  clothed  in  his  habit  as  he  lived :  the  folds  of 
his  well-lined  black  silk  garment  or  lucco  hang  in  grave  un¬ 
broken  lines  from  neck  to  ankle ;  his  plain  cloth  cap,  with  its 
hecchetto^  or  long  hanging  strip  of  drapery,  to  serve  as  a  scarf 
in  case  of  need,  surmounts  a  penetrating  face,  not,  perhaps, 
very  handsome,  but  with  a  firm,  well-cut  mouth,  kept  distinctly 
human  by  a  close-shaven  lip  and  chin.  It  is  a  face  charged 
with  memories  of  a  keen  and  various  life  passed  below  there 
on  the  banks  of  the  gleaming  river  ;  and  as  he  looks  at  the 
scene  before  him,  the  sense  of  familiarity  is  so  much  stronger 
than  the  perception  of  change,  that  he  thinks  it  might  be  pos¬ 
sible  to  descend  once  more  among  the  streets,  and  take  up  that 
busy  life  where  he  left  it.  For  it  is  not  only  the  mountains 
and  the  westward-bending  river  that  he  recognizes  ;  not  only 


PKOEM. 


6 


the  dark  sides  of  Mount  Morello  opposite  to  him,  and  the  long 
valley  of  the  Arno  that  seems  to  stretch  its  gray  low-tufted 
luxuriance  to  the  far-off  ridges  of  Carrara ;  and  the  steep 
height  of  Fiesole,  with  its  crown  of  monastic  walls  and  cy¬ 
presses  ;  and  all  the  green  and  gray  slopes  sprinkled  with 
villas  which  he  can  name  as  he  looks  at  them.  He  sees  other 
familiar  objects  much  closer  to  his  daily  walks.  For  though 
he  misses  the  seventy  or  more  towers  that  once  surmounted 
the  walls,  and  encircled  the  city  as  with  a  regal  diadem,  his 
eyes  will  not  dwell  on  that  blank;  they  are  drawn  irresistibly 
to  the  unique  tower  springing,  like  a  tall  ffower-stem  drawn 
towards  the  sun,  from  the  square-turreted  mass  of  the  Old 
Palace  in  the  very  heart  o-f  the  city  —  the  tower  that  looks 
none  the  worse  for  the  four  centuries  that  have  passed  since 
he  used  to  walk  under  it.  The  great  dome,  too,  greatest  in 
the  world,  which,  in  his  early  boyhood,  had  been  only  a  dar¬ 
ing  thought  in  the  mind  of  a  small,  quick-eyed  man  —  there 
it  raises  its  large  curves  still,  eclipsing  the  hills.  And  the 
well-known  bell-towers  —  Giotto’s,  with  its  distant  hint  of  rich 
color,  and  the  graceful-spired  Badia,  and  the  rest  —  he  looked 
at  them  all  from  the  shoulder  of  his  nurse. 

“  Surely,”  he  thinks,  Florence  can  still  ring  her  bells  with 
the  solemn  hammer-sound  that  used  to  beat  on  the  hearts  of 
her  citizens  and  strike  out  the  fire  there.  And  here,  on  the 
right,  stands  the  long  dark  mass  of  Santa  Croce,  where  we 
buried  our  famous  dead,  laying  the  laurel  on  their  cold  brows 
and  fanning  them  with  the  breath  of  praise  and  of  banners. 
But  Santa  Croce  had  no  spire  then :  we  Florentines  were  too 
full  of  great  building  projects  to  carry  them  all  out  in  stone 
and  marble ;  we  had  our  frescos  and  our  shrines  to  pay  for, 
not  to  speak  of  rapacious  condottieri,  bribed  royalty,  and  pur¬ 
chased  territories,  and  our  facades  and  spires  must  needs  wait. 
But  what  architect  can  the  Frati  Minori^  have  employed  to 
build  that  spire  for  them  ?  If  it  had  been  built  in  my  day, 
Filippo  Brunelleschi  or  Michelozzo  would  have  devised  some¬ 
thing  of  another  fashion  than  that  —  something  worthy  to 
crown  the  church  of  Arnolfo.” 


1  The  Franciscans. 


6 


ROMOLA. 


At  this  the  Spirit,  with  a  sigh,  lets  his  eyes  travel  on  to  the 
city  walls,  and  now  he  dwells  on  the  change  there  with  won¬ 
der  at  these  modern  times.  Why  have  five  out  of  the  eleven 
convenient  gates  been  closed  ?  And  why,  above  all,  should  the 
towers  have  been  levelled  that  were  once  a  glory  and  defence  ? 
Is  the  world  become  so  peaceful,  then,  and  do  Florentines 
dwell  in  such  harmony,  that  there  are  no  longer  conspiracies 
to  bring  ambitious  exiles  home  again  with  armed  bands  at  their 
back  ?  These  are  difficult  questions :  it  is  easier  and  pleas¬ 
anter  to  recognize  the  old  than  to  account  for  the  new.  And 
there  flows  Arno,  with  its  bridges  just  where  they  used  to  be 
—  the  Ponte  Vecchio,  least  like  other  bridges  in  the  world, 
laden  with  the  same  quaint  shops  where  our  Spirit  remembers 
lingering  a  little  on  his  way  perhaps  to  look  at  the  progress 
of  that  great  palace  which  Messer  Luca  Pitti  had  set  a-build- 
ing  with  huge  stones  got  from  the  Hill  of  Bogoli^  close 
behind,  or  perhaps  to  transact  a  little  business  with  the  cloth- 
dressers  in  Oltrarno.  The  exorbitant  line  of  the  Pitti  roof  is 
hidden  from  San  Miniato ;  but  the  yearning  of  the  old  Flor- 
entine  is  not  to  see  Messer  Luca’s  too  ambitious  palace  which 
he  built  unto  himself ;  it  is  to  be  down  among  those  narrow 
streets  and  busy  humming  Piazze  where  he  inherited  the  eager 
life  of  his  fathers.  Is  not  the  anxious  voting  with  black  and 
white  beans  still  going  on  down  there  ?  Who  are  the  Priori 
in  these  months,  eating  soberly  regulated  official  dinners  in 
the  Palazzo  Vecchio,  with  removes  of  tripe  and  boiled  par¬ 
tridges,  seasoned  by  practical  jokes  against  the  ill-fated  butt 
among  those  potent  signors  ?  Are  not  the  significant  banners 
still  hung  from  the  windows  —  still  distributed  with  decent 
pomp  under  Orcagna’s  Loggia  every  two  months  ? 

Life  had  its  zest  for  the  old  Florentine  when  he,  too,  trod 
the  marble  steps  and  shared  in  those  dignities.  His  politics 
had  an  area  as  wide  as  his  trade,  which  stretched  from  Syria 
to  Britain,  but  they  had  also  the  passionate  intensity,  and  the 
detailed  practical  interest,  which  could  belong  only  to  a  nar¬ 
row  scene  of  corporate  action ;  only  to  the  members  of  a  com¬ 
munity  shut  in  close  by  the  hills  and  by  walls  of  six  mile.s’ 


1  Now  BobolL 


PROEM. 


7 


circuit,  where  men  knew  each  other  as  they  passed  in  the 
street,  set  their  eyes  every  day  on  the  memorials  of  their 
commonwealth,  and  were  conscious  of  having  not  simply  the 
right  to  vote,  but  the  chance  of  being  voted  for.  He  loved 
his  honors  and  his  gains,  the  business  of  his  counting-house, 
of  his  guild,  of  the  public  council-chamber ;  he  loved  his  en¬ 
mities,  too,  and  fingered  the  white  bean  which  was  to  keep 
a  hated  name  out  of  the  borsa  with  more  complacency  than 
if  it  had  been  a  golden  florin.  He  loved  to  strengthen  his 
family  by  a  good  alliance,  and  went  home  with  a  triumphant 
light  in  his  eyes  after  concluding  a  satisfactory  marriage 
for  his  son  or  daughter  under  his  favorite  loggia  in  the 
evening  cool;  he  loved  his  game  at  chess  under  that  same 
loggia,  and  his  biting  jest,  and  even  his  coarse  joke,  as  not 
beneath  the  dignity  of  a  man  eligible  for  the  highest  magis¬ 
tracy.  He  had  gained  an  insight  into  all  sorts  of  affairs  at 
home  and  abroad :  he  had  been  of  the  ‘‘  Ten  ”  who  managed 
the  war  department,  of  the  “Eight”  who  attended  to  home 
discipline,  of  the  Priori  or  Signori  who  were  the  heads  of  the 
executive  government ;  he  had  even  risen  to  the  supreme  office 
of  Gonfaloniere ;  he  had  made  one  in  embassies  to  the  Pope 
and  to  the  Venetians ;  and  he  had  been  commissary  to  the 
hired  army  of  the  Kepublic,  directing  the  inglorious  bloodless 
battles  in  which  no  man  died  of  brave  breast-wounds  —  virtu¬ 
osi  colpi  —  but  only  of  casual  falls  and  tramplings.  And  in 
this  way  he  had  learned  to  distrust  men  without  bitterness ; 
looking  on  life  mainly  as  a  game  of  skill,  but  not  dead  to  tra¬ 
ditions  of  heroism  and  clean-handed  honor.  For  the  human 
soul  is  hospitable,  and  will  entertain  conflicting  sentiments 
and  contradictory  opinions  with  much  impartiality.  It  was 
his  pride  besides,  that  he  was  duly  tinctured  with  the  learn¬ 
ing  of  his  age,  and  judged  not  altogether  with  the  vulgar,  but 
in  harmony  with  th'^  ancients  :  he,  too,  in  his  prime,  had  been 
eager  for  the  most  correct  manuscripts,  and  had  paid  many 
florins  for  antique  vases  and  for  disinterred  busts  of  the  an¬ 
cient  immortals  —  some,  perhaps,  truncis  naribus,  wanting  as 
to  the  nose,  but  not  the  less  authentic  ;  and  in  his  old  age  he 
had  made  haste  to  look  at  the  first  sheets  of  that  fine  Homei 


8 


ROMOLA. 


which  was  among  the  early  glories  of  the  Florentine  press. 
But  he  had  not,  for  all  that,  neglected  to  hang  up  a  waxen 
image  or  double  of  himself  under  the  protection  of  the  Ma¬ 
donna  Annunziata,  or  to  do  penance  for  his  sins  in  large  gifts 
to  the  shrines  of  saints  whose  lives  had  not  been  modelled  on 
the  study  of  the  classics ;  he  had  not  even  neglected  making 
liberal  bequests  towards  buildings  for  the  Frati,  against  whom 
he  had  levelled  many  a  jest. 

For  the  Unseen  Powers  were  mighty.  Who  knew  —  who 
was  sure  —  that  there  was  any  name  given  to  them  behind 
which  there  was  no  angry  force  to  be  appeased,  no  interces¬ 
sory  pity  to  be  won  ?  Were  not  gems  medicinal,  though  they 
only  pressed  the  finger  ?  Were  not  all  things  charged  with 
occult  virtues  ?  Lucretius  might  be  right  —  he  was  an  ancient, 
and  a  great  poet ;  Luigi  Pulci,  too,  who  was  suspected  of  not 
believing  anything  from  the  roof  upward  {dal  t&tto  in  su), 
had  very  much  the  air  of  being  right  over  the  supper-table, 
when  the  wine  and  jests  were  circulating  fast,  though  he 
was  only  a  poet  in  the  vulgar  tongue.  There  were  even 
learned  personages  who  maintained  that  Aristotle,  wisest  of 
men  (unless,  indeed,  Plato  were  wiser  ?),  was  a  thoroughly 
irreligious  philosopher;  and  a  liberal  scholar  must  entertain 
all  speculations.  But  the  negatives  might,  after  all,  prove 
false;  nay,  seemed  manifestly  false,  as  the  circling  hours 
swept  past  him,  and  turned  round  with  graver  faces.  For  had 
not  the  world  become  Christian  ?  Had  he  not  been  baptized 
in  San  Giovanni,  where  the  dome  is  awful  with  the  symbols 
of  coming  judgment,  and  where  the  altar  bears  a  crucified 
Image  disturbing  to  perfect  complacency  in  one’s  self  and  the 
world  ?  Our  resuscitated  Spirit  was  not  a  pagan  philosopher, 
nor  a  philosophizing  pagan  poet,  but  a  man  of  the  fifteenth 
century,  inheriting  its  strange  web  of  belief  and  unbelief ;  of 
Epicurean  levity  and  fetichistic  dread ;  of  pedantic  impossible 
ethics  uttered  by  rote,  and  crude  passions  acted  out  with 
childish  impulsiveness  ;  of  inclination  towards  a  self-indulgent 
paganism,  and  inevitable  subjection  to  that  human  conscience 
which,  in  the  unrest  of  a  new  growth,  was  filling  the  air  with 
strange  prophecies  and  presentiments. 


PROEM. 


He  had  smiled,  perhaps,  and  shaken  his  head  dubiously,  as 
he  heard  simple  folk  talk  of  a  Pope  Angelico,  who  was  to 
come  by-and-by  and  bring  in  a  new  order  of  things,  to  purify 
the  Church  from  simony,  and  the  lives  of  the  clergy  from 
scandal  —  a  state  of  affairs  too  different  from  what  existed 
under  Innocent  the  Eighth  for  a  shrewd  merchant  and  politi¬ 
cian  to  regard  the  prospect  as  worthy  of  entering  into  his  cal¬ 
culations.  But  he  felt  the  evils  of  the  time,  nevertheless; 
for  he  was  a  man  of  public  spirit,  and  public  spirit  can  never 
be  wholly  immoral,  since  its  essence  is  care  for  a  common 
good.  That  very  Quaresima,  or  Lent,  of  1492  in  which  he 
died,  still  in  his  erect  old  age,  he  had  listened  in  San  Lorenzo, 
not  without  a  mixture  of  satisfaction,  to  the  preaching  of  a 
Dominican  Eriar,  named  Girolamo  Savonarola,  who  denounced 
with  a  rare  boldness  the  worldliness  and  vicious  habits  of  the 
clergy,  and  insisted  on  the  duty  of  Christian  men  not  to  live 
for  their  own  ease  when  wrong  was  triumphing  in  high  places, 
and  not  to  spend  their  wealth  in  outward  pomp  even  in  the 
churches,  when  their  fellow-citizens  were  suffering  from  want 
and  sickness.  The  Erate  carried  his  doctrine  rather  too  far  for 
elderly  ears ;  yet  it  was  a  memorable  thing  to  see  a  preacher 
move  his  audience  to  such  a  pitch  that  the  women  even  took 
off  their  ornaments,  and  delivered  them  up  to  be  sold  for  the 
benefit  of  the  needy. 

“  He  was  a  noteworthy  man,  that  Prior  of  San  Marco,” 
thinks  our  Spirit ;  “  somewhat  arrogant  and  extreme,  perhaps, 
especially  in  his  denunciations  of  speedy  vengeance.  Ah, 
Iddio  non  paga  il  Sabato  ^  —  the  wages  of  men’s  sins  often 
linger  in  their  payment,  and  I  myself  saw  much  established 
wickedness  of  long-standing  prosperity.  But  a  Erate  Predi- 
catore  who  wanted  to  move  the  people  —  how  could  he  be 
moderate  ?  He  might  have  been  a  little  less  defiant  and  curt, 
though,  to  Lorenzo  de’  Medici,  whose  family  had  been  the 
very  makers  of  San  Marco :  was  that  quarrel  ever  made  up  ? 
And  our  Lorenzo  himself,  with  the  dim  outward  eyes  and  the 
subtle  inward  vision,  did  he  get  over  that  illness  at  Careggi  ? 
It  was  but  a  sad,  uneasy-looking  face  that  he  would  carry 


^  “  God  does  not  paj  on  a  Saturday.” 


10 


ROMOLA. 


out  of  the  world  which  had  given  him  so  much,  and  there 
were  strong  suspicions  that  his  handsome  son  would  play  the 
part  of  Rehoboam.  How  has  it  ail  turned  out  ?  Which  party 
is  likely  to  be  banished  and  have  its  houses  sacked  just  now  ? 
Is  there  any  successor  of  the  incomparable  Lorenzo,  to  whom 
the  great  Turk  is  so  gracious  as  to  send  over  presents  of  rare 
animals,  rare  relics,  rare  manuscripts,  or  fugitive  enemies, 
suited  to  the  tastes  of  a  Christian  Magnifico  who  is  at  once 
lettered  and  devout  —  and  also  slightly  vindictive  ?  And 
what  famous  scholar  is  dictating  the  Latin  letters  of  the 
Republic  —  what  fiery  philosopher  is  lecturing  on  Dante  in  the 
Duomo,  and  going  home  to  write  bitter  invectives  against  the 
father  and  mother  of  the  bad  critic  who  may  have  found  fault 
with  his  classical  spelling  ?  Are  our  wiser  heads  leaning 
towards  alliance  with  the  Pope  and  the  Regno, ^  or  are  they 
rather  inclining  their  ears  to  the  orators  of  France  and  of 
Milan  ? 

“There  is  knowledge  of  these  things  to  be  had  in  the 
streets  below,  on  the  beloved  marmi  in  front  of  the  churches, 
and  under  the  sheltering  Loggie,  where  surely  our  citizens 
have  still  their  gossip  and  debates,  their  bitter  and  merry 
jests  as  of  old.  For  are  not  the  well-remembered  buildings 
all  there  ?  The  changes  have  not  been  so  great  in  those 
uncounted  years.  I  will  go  down  and  hear  —  I  will  tread 
the  familiar  pavement,  and  hear  once  again  the  speech  of 
Florentines.” 

Go  not  down,  good  Spirit !  for  the  changes  are  great,  and 
the  speech  of  Florentines  would  sound  as  a  riddle  in  your 
ears.  Or,  if  you  go,  mingle  with  no  politicians  on  the  marmi, 
or  elsewhere ;  ask  no  questions  about  trade  in  the  Calimara ; 
confuse  yourself  with  no  inquiries  into  scholarship,  official  or 
monastic.  Only  look  at  the  sunlight  and  shadows  on  the 
grand  walls  that  were  built  solidly,  and  have  endured  in  their 
grandeur  ;  look  at  the  faces  of  the  little  children,  making  an¬ 
other  sunlight  amid  the  shadows  of  age  ;  look,  if  you  will^ 
into  the  churches,  and  hear  the  same  chants,  see  the  same 

^  The  name  g^iven  to  Naples  by  way  of  distinction  among  the  Italian 
States. 


PROEM. 


11 


images  as  of  old  —  the  images  of  willing  anguish  for  a  great 
end,  of  beneficent  love  and  ascending  glory ;  see  upturned 
living  faces,  and  lips  moving  to  the  old  prayers  for  help. 
These  things  have  not  changed.  The  sunlight  and  shadows 
bring  their  old  beauty  and  waken  the  old  heart-strains  at 
morning,  noon,  and  eventide  ;  the  little  children  are  still  the 
symbol  of  the  eternal  marriage  between  love  and  duty ;  and 
men  still  yearn  for  the  reign  of  peace  and  righteousness  — 
still  own  that  life  to  be  the  highest  whit  h  is  a  conscious 
voluntary  sacrifice.  For  the  Pope  Angelico  is  not  come  yet. 


BOOK  1. 


CHAPTER  1. 

THE  SHIPWRECKED  STRANGER. 

The  Loggia  de’  Cerchi  stood  in  the  heart  of  old  Florence, 
within  a  labyrinth  of  narrow  streets  behind  the  Badia,  now 
rarely  threaded  by  the  stranger,  unless  in  a  dubious  search  for 
a  certain  severely  simple  door- place,  bearing  this  inscription : 

QUI  NACQUE  IL  DIVING  POETA. 

To  the  ear  of  Dante  the  same  streets  rang  with  the  shout  and 
clash  of  fierce  battle  between  rival  families;  but  in  the  fif¬ 
teenth  century  they  were  only  noisy  with  the  unhistorical 
quarrels  and  broad  jests  of  wool-carders  in  the  cloth-producing 
quarters  of  San  Martino  and  Garbo. 

Under  this  loggia,  in  the  early  morning  of  the  9th  of  April, 
1492,  two  men  had  their  eyes  fixed  on  each  other  :  one  was 
stooping  slightly,  and  looking  downward  with  the  scrutiny  of 
curiosity ;  the  other,  lying  on  the  pavement,  was  looking  up¬ 
ward  with  the  startled  gaze  of  a  suddenly  awakened  dreamer. 

The  standing  figure  was  the  first  to  speak.  He  was  a  gray¬ 
haired,  broad-shouldered  man,  of  the  type  which,  in  Tuscan 
phrase,  is  moulded  with  the  fist  and  polished  with  the  pick¬ 
axe  ;  but  the  self-important  gravity  which  had  written  itself 
out  in  the  deep  lines  about  his  brow  and  mouth  seemed  in¬ 
tended  to  correct  any  contemptuous  inferences  from  the  hasty 
workmanship  which  Nature  had  bestowed  on  his  exterior. 
He  had  deposited  a  large  well-filled  bag,  made  of  skins,  on  the 
pavement,  and  before  him  hung  a  pedler’s  basket,  garnished 
partly  with  small  woman’s-ware,  such  as  thread  and  pins,  and 


THE  SHIPWRECKED  STRANGER.  Vd 

partly  with  fragments  of  glass,  which  had  probably  been  taken 
in  exchange  for  those  commodities. 

“  Young  man,”  he  said,  pointing  to  a  ring  on  the  finger  of 
the  reclining  figure,  “  when  your  chin  has  got  a  stiffer  crop  on 
it,  you  ’ll  know  better  than  to  take  your  nap  in  street  corners 
with  a  ring  like  that  on  your  forefinger.  By  the  holy  ’vangels  ! 
if  it  had  been  anybody  but  me  standing  over  you  two  minutes 
S,go--but  Bratti  Ferravecchi  is  not  the  man  to  steal.  The  cat 
could  n’t  eat  her  mouse  if  she  did  n’t  catch  it  alive,  and  Bratti 
could  n’t  relish  gain  if  it  had  no  taste  of  a  bargain.  Why, 
young  man,  one  San  Giovanni,  three  years  ago,  the  Saint  sent 
a  dead  body  in  my  way  —  a  blind  beggar,  with  his  cap  well 
lined  with  pieces  —  but,  if  you  ’ll  believe  me,  my  stomach 
turned  against  the  money  I ’d  never  bargained  for,  till  it  came 
into  my  head  that  San  Giovanni  owed  me  the  pieces  for  what 
I  spend  yearly  at  the  Festa;  besides,  I  buried  the  body  and 
paid  for  a  mass  —  and  so  I  saw  it  was  a  fair  bargain.  But 
how  comes  a  young  man  like  you,  with  the  face  of  Messer 
San  Michele,  to  be  sleeping  on  a  stone  bed  with  the  wind  for 
a  curtain  ?  ” 

The  deep  guttural  sounds  of  the  speaker  were  scarcely  in¬ 
telligible  to  the  newly-waked,  bewildered  listener,  but  he 
understood  the  action  of  pointing  to  his  ring  :  he  looked  down 
at  it,  and,  with  a  half-automatic  obedience  to  the  warning,  took 
it  off  and  thrust  it  within  his  doublet,  rising  at  the  same  time 
and  stretching  himself. 

^‘Your  tunic  and  hose  match  ill  with  that  jewel,  young 
man,”  said  Bratti,  deliberately.  “  Anybody  might  say  the 
saints  had  sent  you  a  dead  body  ;  but  if  you  took  the  jewels, 
I  hope  you  buried  him  —  and  you  can  afford  a  mass  or  two  for 
him  into  the  bargain.” 

Something  like  a  painful  thrill  appeared  to  dart  through  the 
frame  of  the  listener,  and  arrest  the  careless  stretching  of  his 
arms  and  chest.  For  an  instant  he  turned  on  Bratti  with  a 
sharp  frown  ;  but  he  immediately  recovered  an  air  of  indiffer¬ 
ence,  took  off  the  red  Levantine  cap  which  hung  like  a  great 
purse  over  his  left  ear,  pushed  back  his  long  dark-brown  curls, 
and  glancing  at  his  dress,  said,  smilingly  — 


14 


ROMOLA. 


“You  speak  truth,  friend:  my  garments  are  as  weather- 
stained  as  an  old  sail,  and  they  are  not  old  either,  only,  like  an 
old  sail,  they  have  had  a  sprinkling  of  the  sea  as  well  as  the 
rain.  The  fact  is,  I ’m  a  stranger  in  Florence,  and  when  I 
came  in  footsore  last  night  I  preferred  flinging  myself  in  a 
corner  of  this  hospitable  porch  to  hunting  any  longer  for  a 
chance  hostelry,  which  might  turn  out  to  be  a  nest  of  blood¬ 
suckers  of  more  sorts  than  one.” 

“  A  stranger,  in  good  sooth,”  said  Bratti,  “  for  the  words 
come  all  melting  out  of  your  throat,  so  that  a  Christian  and  a 
Florentine  can’t  tell  a  hook  from  a  hanger.  But  you  ’re  not 
from  Genoa  ?  More  likely  from  Venice,  by  the  cut  of  your 
clothes  ?  ” 

“  At  this  present  moment,”  said  the  stranger,  smiling,  “  it 
is  of  less  importance  where  I  come  from  than  where  I  can 
go  to  for  a  mouthful  of  breakfast.  This  city  of  yours  turns 
a  grim  look  on  me  just  here  :  can  you  show  me  the  way  to  a 
more  lively  quarter,  where  I  can  get  a  meal  and  a  lodging  ?  ” 
“That  I  can,”  said  Bratti,  “and  it  is  your  good  fortune, 
young  man,  that  I  have  happened  to  be  walking  in  from 
Eovezzano  this  morning,  and  turned  out  of  my  way  to  Mercato 
Vecchio  to  say  an  Ave  at  the  Badia.  That,  I  say,  is  your  good 
fortune.  But  it  remains  to  be  seen  what  is  my  profit  in  the 
matter.  Nothing  for  nothing,  young  man.  If  I  show  you  the 
way  to  Mercato  Vecchio,  you’ll  swear  by  your  patron  saint  to 
let  me  have  the  bidding  for  that  stained  suit  of  yours,  when 
you  set  up  a  better  —  as  doubtless  you  will.” 

“xigreed,  by  San  Niccol6,”  said  the  other,  laughing.  “  But 
now  let  us  set  off  to  this  said  Mercato,  for  I  feel  the  want 
of  a  better  lining  to  this  doublet  of  mine  which  you  are 
coveting.” 

“  Coveting  ?  Nay,”  said  Bratti,  heaving  his  bag  on  his  back 
and  setting  out.  But  he  broke  off  in  his  reply,  and  burst  out 
in  loud,  harsh  tones,  not  unlike  the  creaking  and  grating  of  a 
cart-wheel:  “  Chi  abbaratta  —  baratta  —  Vratta  —  chi  abbaratta 
cenci  e  vetri  —  Vratta  ferri  vecchi  /  ”  ^ 

“  It ’s  worth  but  little,”  he  said  presently,  relapsing  into  his 

^  “  Who  wanta  to  exchange  rags,  broken  glass,  or  old  iron  1  ” 


THE  SHIPWRECKED  STRANGER. 


15 


conversational  tone.  “  Hose  and  altogether,  your  clothes  are 
worth  but  little.  Still,  if  you ’ve  a  mind  to  set  yourself  up 
with  a  lute  worth  more  than  any  new  one,  or  with  a  sword 
that ’s  been  worn  by  a  Ridolfi,  or  with  a  paternoster  of  the 
best  mode,  I  could  let  you  have  a  great  bargain,  by  making  an 
allowance  for  the  clothes  ;  for,  simple  as  I  stand  here,  I ’ve 
got  the  best-furnished  shop  in  the  Ferravecchi,  and  it ’s  close 
by  the  Mercato.  The  Virgin  be  praised  !  it ’s  not  a  pumpkin 
I  carry  on  my  shoulders.  But  I  don’t  stay  caged  in  my  shop 
all  day  :  I ’ve  got  a  wife  and  a  raven  to  stay  at  home  and 
mind  the  stock.  Chi  ahbaratta  —  haratta — Cratta?  .  .  .  And 
now,  young  man,  where  do  you  come  from,  and  what ’s  your 
business  in  Florence  ?  ” 

“  I  thought  you  liked  nothing  that  came  to  you  without  a 
bargain,”  said  the  stranger.  ‘^You’ve  offered  me  nothing  yet 
in  exchange  for  that  information.” 

“Well,  well;  a  Florentine  doesn’t  mind  bidding  a  fair  price 
for  news :  it  stays  the  stomach  a  little  though  he  may  win  no 
hose  by  it.  If  I  take  you  to  the  prettiest  damsel  in  the  Mer¬ 
cato  to  get  a  cup  of  milk  —  that  will  be  a  fair  bargain.” 

“  Nay ;  I  can  find  her  myself,  if  she  be  really  in  the  Mercato  ; 
for  pretty  heads  are  apt  to  look  forth  of  doors  and  windows. 
No,  no.  Besides,  a  sharp  trader  like  you  ought  to  know  that 
he  who  bids  for  nuts  and  news,  may  chance  to  find  them 
hollow.” 

“  Ah !  young  man,”  said  Bratti,  with  a  side-way  glance  of 
some  admiration,  “you  were  not  born  of  a  Sunday  —  the  salt- 
shops  were  open  when  you  came  into  the  world.  You  ’re  not 
a  Hebrew,  eh  ? — come  from  Spain  or  Naples,  eh  ?  Let  me  tell 
you  the  Frati  Minor!  are  trying  to  make  Florence  as  hot  as 
Spain  for  those  dogs  of  hell  that  want  to  get  all  the  profit  of 
usury  to  themselves  and  leave  none  for  Christians ;  and  when 
you  walk  the  Calimara  with  a  piece  of  yellow  cloth  in  your  cap, 
it  will  spoil  your  beauty  more  than  a  sword-cut  across  that 
smooth  olive  cheek  of  yours.  —  Ahbaratta,  haratta  —  chi  abba- 
ratta?  —  I  tell  you,  young  man,  gray  cloth  is  against  yellow 
cloth;  and  there’s  as  much  gray  cloth  in  Florence  as  would 
make  a  gown  and  cowl  for  the  Duomo,  and  there ’s  not  so 


16 


ROMOLA. 


much  yellow  cloth  as  would  make  hose  for  Saint  Christopher- 
blessed  be  his  name,  and  send  me  a  sight  of  him  this  day  !  — 
Abbaratta,  baratta,  Vratta  —  chi  abbaratta  ?  ” 

“  All  that  is  very  amusing  information  you  are  parting  with 
for  nothing/^  said  the  stranger,  rather  scornfully  ;  “  but  it  hap¬ 
pens  not  to  concern  me.  I  am  no  Hebrew,” 

“  See,  now  !  ”  said  Bratti,  triumphantly ;  “  I ’ve  made  a  good 
bargain  with  mere  words.  I  Ve  made  you  tell  me  something, 
young  man,  though  you  Ve  as  hard  to  hold  as  a  lamprey.  San 
Giovanni  be  praised !  a  blind  Florentine  is  a  match  for  two 
one-eyed  men.  But  here  we  are  in  the  Mercato.” 

They  had  now  emerged  from  the  narrow  streets  into  a  broad 
piazza,  known  to  the  elder  Florentine  writers  as  the  Mercato 
Vecchio,  or  the  Old  Market.  This  piazza,  though  it  had  been 
the  scene  of  a  provision-market  from  time  immemorial,  and 
may,  perhaps,  says  fond  imagination,  be  the  very  spot  to  which 
the  Fesulean  ancestors  of  the  Florentines  descended  from  their 
high  fastness  to  traffic  with  the  rustic  population  of  the  valley, 
had  not  been  shunned  as  a  place  of  residence  by  Florentine 
wealth.  In  the  early  decades  of  the  fifteenth  century,  which 
was  now  near  its  end,  the  Medici  and  other  powerful  families 
of  the popolani  grassi,  or  commercial  nobility,  had  their  houses 
there,  not  perhaps  finding  their  ears  much  offended  by  the 
loud  roar  of  mingled  dialects,  or  their  eyes  much  shocked  by 
the  butchers’  stalls,  which  the  old  poet  Antonio  Pucci  accounts 
a  chief  glory,  or  dignita,  of  a  market  that,  in  his  esteem, 
eclipsed  the  markets  of  all  the  earth  beside.  But  the  glory 
of  mutton  and  veal  (well  attested  to  be  the  flesh  of  the  right 
animals ;  for  were  not  the  skins,  with  the  heads  attached,  duly 
displayed,  according  to  the  decree  of  the  Signoria  ?)  was  just 
now  wanting  to  the  Mercato,  the  time  of  Lent  not  being  yet 
over.  The  proud  corporation,  or  “Art,”  of  butchers  was  in 
abeyance,  and  it  was  the  great  harvest-time  of  the  market- 
gardeners,  the  cheese-mongers,  the  venders  of  macaroni,  corn, 
eggs,  milk,  and  dried  fruits  :  a  change  which  was  apt  to  make 
the  women’s  voices  predominant  in  the  chorus.  But  in  all 
seasons  there  was  the  experimental  ringing  of  pots  and  pans, 
the  chinking  of  the  money-changers,  the  tempting  offers  of 


THE  SHIPWRECKED  STRANGER. 


17 


cheapness  at  the  old-clothes  stalls,  the  challenges  of  the  dicers, 
the  vaunting  of  new  linens  and  woollens,  of  excellent  wooden- 
ware,  kettles,  and  frying-pans  ;  there  was  the  choking  of  the 
narrow  inlets  with  mules  and  carts,  together  with  much  uncom¬ 
plimentary  remonstrance  in  terms  remarkably  identical  with 
the  insults  in  use  by  the  gentler  sex  of  the  present  day,  under 
the  same  imbrowning  and  heating  circumstances.  Ladies  and 
gentlemen  who  came  to  market  looked  on  at  a  larger  amount 
of  amateur  fighting  than  could  easily  be  seen  in  these  later 
times,  and  beheld  more  revolting  rags,  beggary,  and  rascaldom 
than  modern  householders  could  well  picture  to  themselves. 
As  the  day  wore  on,  the  hideous  drama  of  the  gaming-house 
might  be  seen  here  by  any  chance  open-air  spectator  —  the 
quivering  eagerness,  the  blank  despair,  the  sobs,  the  blasphemy, 
and  the  blows  :  — 


“  E  vedesi  chi  perde  con  gran  soffi, 

E  bestemmiar  colla  mano  alia  mascella, 

E  ricever  e  dar  dimolti  ingolS.” 

But  still  there  was  the  relief  of  prettier  sights  :  there  were 
brood-rabbits,  not  less  innocent  and  astonished  than  those  of 
our  own  period ;  there  were  doves  and  singing-birds  to  be 
bought  as  presents  for  the  children  ;  there  were  even  kittens 
for  sale,  and  here  and  there  a  handsome  gattuccio,  or  Tom,’’ 
with  the  highest  character  for  mousing ;  and,  better  than  all, 
there  were  young,  softly  rounded  cheeks  and  bright  eyes,  fresh¬ 
ened  by  the  start  from  the  far-off  castello  ^  at  daybreak,  not  to 
speak  of  older  faces  with  the  unfading  charm  of  honest  good¬ 
will  in  them,  such  as  are  never  qnite  wanting  in  scenes  of 
human  industry.  And  high  fin  a  pillar  in  the  centre  ef  the 
place  —  a  venerable  pillar,  fetched  frcm  the  church  of  San 
Giovanni  —  stood  Donatello’s  stone  statue  of  Plenty,  with  a 
fountain  near  it,  where,  says  old  Pucci,  the  good  wives  of  the 
market  freshened  their  utensils,  and  their  throats  also ;  not 
because  they  were  unable  to  buy  wine,  but  because  they 
wished  to  save  the  money  for  their  husbands. 

But  on  this  particular  morning  a  sudden  change  seemed  to 

1  Walled  village. 

2 


VOl,.  V. 


18 


ROMOLA. 


have  come  over  the  face  of  the  market.  The  deschi,  or  stalls, 
were  indeed  partly  dressed  with  their  various  commodities, 
and  already  there  were  purchasers  assembled,  on  the  alert  to 
secure  the  finest,  freshest  vegetables  and  the  most  unexception¬ 
able  butter.  But  when  Bratti  and  his  companion  entered  the 
piazza,  it  appeared  that  some  common  preoccupation  had  for 
the  moment  distracted  the  attention  both  of  buyers  and  sellers 
from  their  proper  business.  Most  of  the  traders  had  turned 
their  backs  on  their  goods,  and  had  joined  the  knots  of  talkers 
who  were  concentrating  themselves  at  different  points  in  the 
piazza.  A  vender  of  old  clothes,  in  the  act  of  hanging  out  a 
pair  of  long  hose,  had  distractedly  hung  them  round  his  neck 
in  his  eagerness  to  join  the  nearest  group ;  an  oratorical  cheese¬ 
monger,  with  a  piece  of  cheese  in  one  hand  and  a  knife  in  the 
other,  was  incautiously  making  notes  of  his  emphatic  pauses 
on  that  excellent  specimen  of  marzolino  ;  and  elderly  market- 
women,  with  their  egg-baskets  in  a  dangerously  oblique  posi¬ 
tion,  contributed  a  wailing  fugue  of  invocation. 

In  this  general  distraction,  the  Florentine  boys,  who  were 
never  wanting  in  any  street  scene,  and  were  of  an  especially 
mischievous  sort  —  as  who  should  say,  very  sour  crabs  indeed 
—  saw  a  great  opportunity.  Some  made  a  rush  at  the  nuts 
and  dried  figs,  others  preferred  the  farinaceous  delicacies  at 
the  cooked  provision  stalls  —  delicacies  to  which  certain  four- 
footed  dogs  also,  who  had  learned  to  take  kindly  to  Lenten 
fare,  applied  a  discriminating  nostril,  and  then  disappeared 
with  much  rapidity  under  the  nearest  shelter  ;  while  the 
mules,  not  without  some  kicking  and  plunging  among  impeding 
baskets,  were  stretching  their  muzzles  towards  the  aromatic 
green-meat. 

“  Diavolo !  ”  said  Bratti,  as  he  and  his  companion  came, 
quite  unnoticed,  upon  the  noisy  scene ;  “  the  Mercato  is  gone 
as  mad  as  if  the  most  Holy  Father  had  excommunicated  us 
again.  I  must  knov/  what  this  is.  But  never  fear :  it  seems 
a  thousand  years  to  you  till  you  see  the  pretty  Tessa  and  get 
your  cup  of  milk  ;  but  keep  hold  of  me,  and  I  ’ll  hold  to  my 
bargain.  Remember,  I’m  to  have  the  first  bid  for  your  sum, 
specially  for  the  hose,  which,  with  all  their  stains,  are  tlie  best 


THE  SHfPWRECKED  STRANGER.  19 

panno  di  garho  —  as  good  as  ruined,  though,  with  mud  and 
weather  stains.’’ 

“  Ola,  Monna  Trecca,”  Bratti  proceeded,  turning  towards 
an  old  woman  on  the  outside  of  the  nearest  group,  who 
for  the  moment  had  suspended  her  wail  to  listen,  and 
shouting  close  in  her  ear,  “  here  are  the  mules  upsetting 
all  your  bunches  of  parsley :  is  the  world  coming  to  an  end, 
then  ?  ” 

“  Monna  Trecca  ”  (equivalent  to  Dame  Greengrocer  ”  ) 
turned  round  at  this  unexpected  trumpeting  in  her  right  ear, 
with  a  half-fierce,  half-bewildered  look,  first  at  the  speaker, 
then  at  her  disarranged  commodities,  and  then  at  the  speaker 
again. 

“  A  bad  Easter  and  a  bad  year  to  you,  and  may  you  die  by 
the  sword !  ”  she  burst  out,  rushing  towards  her  stall,  but 
directing  this  first  volley  of  her  wrath  against  Bratti,  who, 
without  heeding  the  malediction,  quietly  slipped  into  her 
place,  within  hearing  of  the  narrative  which  had  been  absorb¬ 
ing  her  attention ;  making  a  sign  at  the  same  time  to  the 
younger  stranger  to  keep  near  him. 

‘‘  I  tell  you  I  saw  it  myself,”  said  a  fat  man,  with  a  bunch 
of  newly  purchased  leeks  in  his  hand.  I  was  in  Santa  Maria 
Novella,  and  saw  it  myself.  The  woman  started  up  and  threw 
out  her  arms,  and  cried  out  and  said  she  saw  a  big  bull  with 
fiery  horns  coming  down  on  the  church  to  crush  it.  I  saw  it 
myself.” 

“  Saw  what,  Goro  ?  ”  said  a  man  of  slim  figure,  whose  eye 
twinkled  rather  roguishly.  He  wore  a  close  jerkin,  a  skull¬ 
cap  lodged  carelessly  over  his  left  ear  as  if  it  had  fallen 
there  by  chance,  a  delicate  linen  apron  tucked  up  on  one 
side,  and  a  razor  stuck  in  his  belt.  “Saw  the  bull,  or  only 
the  woman  ?  ” 

“Why,  the  woman,  to  be  sure;  but  it’s  all  one,  mi  paro: 
it  does  n’t  alter  the  meaning  —  va !  ”  answered  the  fat  man, 
with  some  contempt.  * 

“  Meaning  ?  no,  no  ;  that ’s  clear  enough,”  said  several 
voices  at  once,  and  then  followed  a  confusion  of  tongues,  in 
which  “  Light  shooting  over  San  Lorenzo  for  three  nights 


20 


KOMOLA. 


together  ” —  “Thander  in  the  clear  starlight  ”  —  “  Lantern  of 
the  Duomo  struck  with  the  sword  of  St.  Michael”  — 

<—  “  All  smashed  ”  —  Lions  tearing  each  other  to  pieces  ”  — 
“  Ah  !  and  they  might  well  ”  —  “  Boto  *  caduto  in  Sanfissima 
Nunziata  !  ”  —  “  Died  like  the  best  of  Christians  ”  —  “  God  will 
have  pardoned  him  ”  —  were  often  repeated  phrases,  which  shot 
across  each  other  like  storm-driven  hailstones,  each  speaker 
feeling  rather  the  necessity  of  utterance  than  of  finding  a 
listener.  Perhaps  the  only  silent  members  of  the  group  were 
Bratti,  who,  as  a  new-comer,  was  busy  in  mentally  piecing 
together  the  flying  fragments  of  information  ;  the  man  of  the 
razor  ;  and  a  thin-lipped,  eager-looking  personage  in  spectacles, 
wearing  a  pen-and-ink  case  at  his  belt. 

Ebbene,  Nello,”  said  Bratti,  skirting  the  group  till  he  was 
within  hearing  of  the  barber.  “  It  appears  the  Magnifico  is 
dead  —  rest  his  soul !  —  and  the  price  of  wax  will  rise  ?  ” 

‘‘  Even  as  you  say,”  answered  Nello ;  and  then  added,  with 
an  air  of  extra  gravity,  but  with  marvellous  rapidity,  “  and 
his  waxen  image  in  the  Nunziata  fell  at  the  same  moment, 
they  say ;  or  at  some  other  time,  whenever  it  pleases  the  Frati 
Serviti,  who  know  best.  And  several  cows  and  women  have 
had  still-born  calves  this  Quaresima ;  and  for  the  bad  eggs  that 
have  been  broken  since  the  Carnival,  nobody  has  counted  them. 
Ah  !  a  great  man  —  a  great  politician  —  a  greater  poet  than 
Dante.  And  yet  the  cupola  did  n’t  fall,  only  the  lantern.  Che 
iniracolo  !  ” 

A  sharp  and  lengthened  “Pst !  ”  was  suddenly  heard  darting 
across  the  pelting  storm  of  gutturals.  It  came  from  the  pale 
man  in  spectacles,  and  had  the  effect  he  intended ;  for  the 
noise  ceased,  and  all  eyes  in  the  group  were  fixed  on  him  with 
a  look  of  expectation. 

“  ’T  is  well  said  you  Florentines  are  blind,”  he  began,  in  an 
incisive  high  voice.  “It  appears  to  me,  you  need  nothing  but 

a  diet  of  hay  to  make  cattle  of  you.  What !  do  you  think  the 

« 

*  Arms  of  the  Medici. 

2  A  votive  image  of  Lorenzo,  in  wax,  hung  up  in  the  Church  of  the  An- 
nunziata,  supposed  to  have  fallen  at  the  time  of  his  death.  Boto  is  popular 
Tuscan  for  Voto. 


THE  SHIPWRECKED  STRANGER. 


21 


death  of  Lorenzo  is  the  scourge  God  has  prepared  for  Flor¬ 
ence  ?  Go !  you  are  sparrows  chattering  praise  over  the  dead 
hawk.  What !  a  man  who  was  trying  to  slip  a  noose  over 
every  neck  in  the  Kepublic  that  he  might  tighten  it  at  his 
pleasure!  You  like  that;  you  like  to  have  the  election  of 
your  magistrates  turned  into  closet-work,  and  no  man  to  use 
the  rights  of  a  citizen  unless  he  is  a  Medicean.  That  is  what 
is  meant  by  qualification  now  ;  netto  di  specchio  ^  no  longer 
means  that  a  man  pays  his  dues  to  the  Republic :  it  means 
that  he  ’ll  wink  at  robbery  of  the  people’s  money  —  at  robbery 
of  their  daughters’  dowries ;  that  he  ’ll  play  the  chamberer 
and  the  philosopher  by  turns  —  listen  to  bawdy  songs  at  the 
Carnival  and  cry  ‘  Bellissimi !  ’  —  and  listen  to  sacred  lauds 
and  cry  again  ‘  Bellissimi !  ’  But  this  is  what  you  love  :  you 
grumble  and  raise  a  riot  over  your  qtcattrini  bianchi  ”  (white 
farthings)  ;  “  but  you  take  no  notice  when  the  public  treasury 
has  got  a  hole  in  the  bottom  for  the  gold  to  run  into  Lorenzo’s 
drains.  You  like  to  pay  for  footmen  to  walk  before  and  behind 
one  of  your  citizens,  that  he  may  be  affable  and  condescending 
to  you.  ‘  See,  what  a  tall  Pisan  we  keep,’  say  you,  ‘  to  march 
before  him  with  the  drawn  sword  flashing  in  our  eyes  !  —  and 
yet  Lorenzo  smiles  at  us.  What  goodness  I’  And  you  think 
the  death  of  a  man,  who  would  soon  have  saddled  and  bridled 
you  as  the  Sforza  has  saddled  and  bridled  Milan  — you  think 
his  death  is  the  scourge  God  is  warning  you  of  by  portents. 
I  tell  you  there  is  another  sort  of  scourge  in  the  air.” 

“Nay,  nay,  Ser  Cioni,  keep  astride  your  politics,  and  never 
mount  your  prophecy ;  politics  is  the  better  horse,”  said  Nello 
But  if  you  talk  of  portents,  what  portent  can  be  greater  than 
a  pious  notary  ?  Balaam’s  ass  was  nothing  to  it.” 

“Ay,  but  a  notary  out  of  work,  with  his  ink-bottle  dry,” 
said  another  by-stander,  very  much  out  at  elbows.  “Better 
don  a  cowl  at  once,  Ser  Cioni ;  everybody  will  believe  in  your 
fasting.” 

The  notary  turned  and  left  the  group  with  a  look  of  indig¬ 
nant  contempt,  disclosing,  as  he  did  so,  the  sallow  but  mihS 

^  The  phrase  used  to  express  the  absence  of  disqualification, ».  the  nO' 
being  entered  as  a  debtor  in  the  public  book  (specchio). 


22 


ROMOLA. 


face  of  a  short  man  who  had  been  standing  behind  him,  and 
whose  bent  shoulders  told  of  some  sedentary  occupation. 

“  By  San  Giovanni,  though,”  said  the  fat  purchaser  of  leeks, 
with  the  air  of  a  person  rather  shaken  in  his  theories,  “  I  am 
not  sure  there  is  n’t  some  truth  in  what  Ser  Cioni  says.  For 
I  know  I  have  good  reason  to  find  fault  with  the  quattrini 
bianchi  myself.  Grumble,  did  he  say  ?  Suffocation !  I  should 
think  we  do  grumble ;  and,  let  anybody  say  the  word,  I  ’ll 
turn  out  into  the  piazza  with  the  readiest,  sooner  than  have 
our  money  altered  in  our  hands  as  if  the  magistracy  were  so 
many  necromancers.  And  it ’s  true  Lorenzo  might  have  hin¬ 
dered  such  work  if  he  would  —  and  for  the  bull  with  the 
flaming  horns,  why,  as  Ser  Cioni  says,  there  may  be  many 
meanings  to  it,  for  the  matter  of  that ;  it  may  have  more  to 
do  with  the  taxes  than  we  think.  For  when  God  above  sends 
a  sign,  it ’s  not  to  be  supposed  he ’d  have  only  one  meaning.” 

“  Spoken  like  an  oracle,  Goro  !  ”  said  the  barber.  “  Why, 
when  we  poor  mortals  can  pack  two  or  three  meanings  into 
one  sentence,  it  were  mere  blasphemy  not  to  believe  that  your 
miraculous  bull  means  everything  that  any  man  in  Florence 
likes  it  to  mean.” 

“Thou  art  pleased  to  scoff,  Nello,”  said  the  sallow,  round- 
shouldered  man,  no  longer  eclipsed  by  the  notary,  “  but  it  is 
not  the  less  true  that  every  revelation,  whether  by  visions, 
dreams,  portents,  or  the  written  word,  has  many  meanings, 
which  it  is  given  to  the  illuminated  only  to  unfold.” 

“  Assuredly,”  answered  ISTello.  “  Have  n’t  I  been  to  hear 
the  Frate  in  San  Lorenzo  ?  But  then,  I ’ve  been  to  hear  Fra 
Menico  in  the  Duomo  too ;  and  according  to  him,  your  Fra 
Girolamo,  with  his  visions  and  interpretations,  is  running 
after  the  wind  of  Mongibello,  and  those  who  follow  him 
are  like  to  have  the  fate  of  certain  swine  that  ran  headlong 
into  the  sea  —  or  some  hotter  place.  With  San  Domenico 
roaring  e  veto  in  one  ear,  and  San  Francisco  screaming  e  /also 
in  the  other,  what  is  a  poor  barber  to  do  —  unless  he  were 
illuminated  ?  But  it ’s  plain  our  Goro  here  is  beginning  to  be 
illuminated,  for  he  already  sees  that  the  bull  with  the  flaming 
horns  means  first  himself,  and  secondly  all  the  other  aggrieved 


THE  SHIPWRECKED  STRANGER. 


23 


laxpaycrs  of  Florence,  who  are  determined  to  gore  the  magis¬ 
tracy  on  the  first  opportunity.” 

Goro  is  a  fool !  ”  said  a  bass  voice,  with  a  note  that  dropped 
like  the  sound  of  a  great  bell  in  the  midst  of  much  tinkling. 
“  Let  him  carry  home  his  leeks  and  shake  his  flanks  over 
his  wool-beating.  He  ’ll  mend  matters  more  that  way  than  by 
showing  ]iis  tun-shaped  body  in  the  piazza,  as  if  everybody 
might  measure  his  grievances  by  the  size  of  his  paunch. 
The  burdens  that  harm  him  most  are  his  heavy  carcass  anri 
his  idleness.” 

The  speaker  had  joined  the  group  only  in  time  to  hear  tin- 
conclusion  of  Hello’s  speech,  but  he  was  one  of  those  figures  for 
whom  all  the  world  instinctively  makes  way,  as  it  would  for 
a  battering-ram.  He  was  not  much  above  the  middle  height, 
but  the  impression  of  enormous  force  which  was  conveyed  by 
Mr>  capacious  chest  and  brawny  arms  bared  .to  the  shoulder, 
was  deepened  by  the  keen  sense  and  quiet  resolution  expressed 
in  his  glance  and  in  every  furrow  of  his  cheek  and  brow.  He 
had  often  been  an  unconscious  model  to  Domenico  Ghirlandajo, 
when  that  great  painter  was  making  the  walls  of  the  churches 
reflect  the  life  of  Florence,  and  translating  pale  aerial  tradi¬ 
tions  into  the  deep  color  and  strong  lines  of  the  faces  he  knew. 
The  naturally  dark  tint  of  his  skin  was  additionally  bronzed 
by  -  the  same  powdery  deposit  that  gave  a  polished  black 
surface  to  his  leathern  apron  :  a  deposit  which  habit  had 
probably  made  a  necessary  condition  of  perfect  ease,  for  it 
was  not  washed  off  with  punctilious  regularity. 

Goro  turned  his  fat  cheek  and  glassy  eye  on  the  franh 
speaker  with  a  look  of  deprecation  rather  than  of  resentment. 

“Why,  Niccolo,”  he  said,  in  an  injured  tone,  “I’ve  heard 
you  sing  to  another  tune  than  that,  often  enough,  when  you’ve 
been  laying  down  the  law  at  San  Gallo  on  a  festa.  I’ve  heard 
you  say  yourself  that  a  man  wasn’t  a  mill-wheel,  to  be  on  the 
grind,  grind,  as  long  as  he  was  driven,  and  then  stick  in  his 
place  without  stirring  when  the  water  was  low.  And  jmu  ’re 
as  fond  of  your  vote  as  any  man  in  Florence  —  ay,  and  I ’ve 
heard  you  say,  if  Lorenzo  —  ” 

“Yes,  yes,”  said  Niccolb.  “Don’t  you  be  bringing  up  my 


24 


ROMOLA. 


speeches  again  after  you  Ve  swallowed  them,  and  handing  them 
about  as  if  they  were  none  the  worse.  I  vote  and  I  speak  when 
there ’s  any  use  in  it :  if  there ’s  hot  metal  on  the  anvil,  I  lose  no 
time  before  I  strike ;  but  I  don’t  spend  good  hours  in  tinkling 
on  cold  iron,  or  in  standing  on  the  pavement  as  thou  dost, 
Goro,  with  snout  upward,  like  a  pig  under  an  oak-tree.  And 
as  for  Lorenzo  —  dead  and  gone  before  his  time  —  he  was 
a  man  who  had  an  eye  for  curious  iron-work ;  and  if  anybody 
says  he  wanted  to  make  himself  a  tyrant,  I  say,  ‘Sia;  I’ll  not 
deny  which  way  the  wind  blows  when  every  man  can  see  the 
weathercock.’  But  that  only  means  that  Lorenzo  was  a  crested 
hawk,  and  there  are  plenty  of  hawks  without  crests  whose 
claws  and  beaks  are  as  good  for  tearing.  Though  if  there  was 
any  chance  of  a  real  reform,  so  that  Marzocco  ^  might  shake 
his  mane  and  roar  again,  instead  of  dipping  his  head  to  lick 
the  feet  of  anybody  that  will  mount  and  ride  him,  I ’d  strike 
a  good  blow  for  it.” 

“  And  that  reform  is  not  far  off,  Niccolo,”  said  the  sallow, 
mild-faced  man,  seizing  his  opportunity  like  a  missionary 
among  the  too  light-minded  heathens ;  “  for  a  time  of  tribula¬ 
tion  is  coming,  and  the  scourge  is  at  hand.  And  when  the 
Church  is  purged  of  cardinals  and  prelates  who  traffic  in  her 
inheritance  that  their  hands  may  be  full  to  pay  the  price  of 
blood  and  to  satisfy  their  own  lusts,  the  State  will  be  purged 
too  —  and  Florence  will  be  purged  of  men  who  love  to  see  ava¬ 
rice  and  lechery  under  the  red  hat  and  the  mitre  because  it 
gives  them  the  screen  of  a  more  hellish  vice  than  their  own.” 

“Ay,  as  Goro’s  broad  body  would  be  a  screen  for  my  narrow 
person  in  case  of  missiles,”  said  Nello  ;  “  but  if  that  excel¬ 
lent  screen  happened  to  fall,  I  were  stifled  under  it,  surely 
enough.  That  is  no  bad  image  of  thine,  Nanni  —  or,  rather,  of 
the  Frate’s ;  for  I  fancy  there  is  no  room  in  the  small  cup  of 
thy  understanding  for  any  other  liquor  than  what  he  pours 
into  it.” 

“And  it  were  well  for  thee,  Nello,”  replied  Nanni,  “if  thou 
couldst  empty  thyself  of  thy  scoffs  and  thy  jests,  and  take  in 
that  liquor  too.  The  warning  is  ringing  in  the  ears  of  all 

1  The  stoue  Lion,  emblem  ol  the  Republic. 


THE  SHIPWRECKED  STRANGER. 


25 


men:  and  it’s  no  new  story;  for  the  Abbot  Joachim  prophe¬ 
sied  of  the  coming  time  three  hundred  years  ago,  and  now 
Fra  Girolamo  has  got  the  message  afresh.  He  has  seen  it  in 
a  vision,  even  as  the  prophets  of  old :  he  has  seen  the  sword 
hanging  from  the  sky.” 

“Ay,  and  thou  wilt  see  it  thyself,  Nanni,  if  thou  wilt  stare 
upward  long  enough,”  said  Niccolo;  “for  that  pitiable  tailor’s 
work  of  thine  makes  thy  noddle  so  overhang  thy  legs,  that  thy 
eyeballs  can  see  naught  above  the  stitching-board  but  the  roof 
of  thy  own  skull.” 

The  honest  tailor  bore  the  jest  without  bitterness,  bent  on 
convincing  his  hearer's  of  his  doctrine  rather  than  of  his  dig¬ 
nity.  But  Niccolo  gave  him  no  opportunity  for  replying;  for 
he  turned  away  to  the  pursuit  of  his  market  business,  probably 
considering  further  dialogue  as  a  tinkling  on  cold  iron. 

said  the  man  with  the  hose  round  his  neck,  who 
had  lately  migrated  from  another  knot  of  talkers,  “  they  are 
safest  who  cross  themselves  and  jest  at  nobody.  Do  you 
know  that  the  Magnifico  sent  for  the  Frate  at  the  last,  and 
could  n’t  die  without  his  blessing  ?  ” 

“Was  it  so  —  in  truth  ?”  said  several  voices.  “Yes,  yes  — 
God  will  have  pardoned  him.”  “  He  died  like  the  best  of 
Christians.”  “Never  took  his  eyes  from  the  hol}^  crucifix.” 
“And  the  Frate  will  have  given  him  his  blessing?” 

“Well,  I  know  no  more,”  said  he  of  the  hosen ;  “only  Guccio 
there  met  a  footman  going  back  to  Careggi,  and  he  told  him 
the  Frate  had  been  sent  for  yesternight,  after  the  Magnifico 
had  confessed  and  had  the  holy  sacraments.” 

“  It ’s  likely  enough  the  Frate  will  tell  the  people  something 
about  it  in  his  sermon  this  morning;  is  it  not  true,  Nanni?” 
said  Goro.  “  W^hat  do  you  think  ?  ” 

But  Nanni  had  already  turned  his  back  on  Goro,  and  the 
group  was  rapidly  thinning ;  some  being  stirred  by  the  im¬ 
pulse  to  go  and  hear  “  new  things  ”  from  the  Frate  (“  new 
things  ”  were  the  nectar  of  Florentines)  ;  others  by  the  sense 
that  it  was  time  to  attend  to  their  private  business.  In  this 
general  movement  Bratti  got  close  to  the  barber,  and  said  — 
“Nello,  you’ve  a  ready  tongue  of  your  own,  and  are  used 


26 


ROMOLA. 


to  worming  secrets  out  of  people  when  you ’ve  once  got  them 
well  lathered.  I  picked  up  a  stranger  this  morning  as  I  was 
coming  in  from  Rovezzano,  and  I  can  spell  him  out  no  better 
than  I  can  the  letters  on  that  scarf  I  bought  from  the  French 
cavalier.  It  is  n’t  my  wits  are  at  fault  —  I  want  no  man  to  help 
me  tell  peas  from  paternosters  —  but  when  you  come  to  foreign 
fashions,  a  fool  may  happen  to  know  more  than  a  wise  man.” 

“Ay,  thou  hast  the  wisdom  of  Midas,  who  could  turn  rags 
and  rusty  nails  into  gold,  even  as  thou  dost,”  said  hlello;  “and 
he  had  also  something  of  the  ass  about  him.  But  where  is 
thy  bird  of  strange  plumage  ?  ” 

Bratti  was  looking  round  with  an  air  of  disappointment. 

“  Diavolo  !  ”  he  said,  with  some  vexation.  “  The  bird ’s 
flown.  It ’s  true  he  was  hungry,  and  I  forgot  him.  But  we 
shall  find  him  in  the  Mercato,  within  scent  of  bread  and 
savors,  I  ’ll  answer  for  him.” 

“  Let  us  make  the  round  of  the  Mercato,  then,”  said  Nello. 

“  It  is  n’t  his  feathers  that  puzzle  me,”  continued  Bratti,  as 
they  pushed  their  way  together.  “  There  is  n’t  much  in  the 
way  of  cut  and  cloth  on  this  side  the  Holy  Sepulchre  that  can 
puzzle  a  Florentine.” 

“Or  frighten  him  either,”  said  Nello,  “after  he  has  seen  an 
Englander  or  a  German.” 

“  No,  no,”  said  Bratti,  cordially ;  “  one  may  never  lose  sight 
of  the  Cupola  and  yet  know  the  world,  I  hope.  Besides,  this 
stranger’s  clothes  are  good  Italian  merchandise,  and  the  hose 
he  wears  were  dyed  in  Ognissanti  before  ever  they  were  dyed 
with  salt  water,  as  he  says.  But  the  riddle  about  him  is  —  ” 

Here  Bratti’s  explanation  was  interrupted  by  some  jostling 
as  they  reached  one  of  the  entrances  of  the  piazza,  and  before 
he  could  resume  it  they  had  caught  sight  of  the  enigmatical 
object  they  were  in  search  of. 


BREAKFAST  FOR  LOVE. 


tl 


CHAPTER  11. 

BREAKFAST  FOR  LOVE. 

After  Bratti  had  joined  the  knot  of  talkers,  the  young 
stranger,  hopeless  of  learning  what  was  the  cause  of  the  gen¬ 
eral  agitation,  and  not  much  caring  to  know  what  was  proba¬ 
bly  of  little  interest  to  any  but  born  Florentines,  soon  became 
tired  of  waiting  for  Bratti’s  escort,  and  chose  to  stroll  round 
the  piazza,  looking  out  for  some  vender  of  eatables  who  might 
happen  to  have  less  than  the  average  curiosity  about  public 
news.  But,  as  if  at  the  suggestion  of  a  sudden  thought,  he 
thrust  his  hand  into  a  purse  or  wallet  that  hung  at  his  waist, 
and  explored  it  again  and  again  with  a  look  of  frustration. 

‘‘Not  an  obolus,  by  Jupiter!”  he  murmured,  in  a  language 
which  was  not  Tuscan  or  even  Italian.  “  I  thought  I  had  one 
poor  piece  left.  I  must  get  my  breakfast  for  love,  then  !  ” 

He  had  not  gone  many  steps  farther  before  it  seemed  likely 
that  he  had  found  a  quarter  of  the  market  where  that  medium 
of  exchange  might  not  be  rejected. 

In  a  corner,  away  from  any  group  of  talkers,  two  mules 
were  standing,  well  adorned  with  red  tassels  and  collars.  One 
of  them  carried  wooden  milk-vessels,  the  other  a  pair  of  pan¬ 
niers  filled  with  herbs  and  salads.  Resting  her  elbow  on  the 
neck  of  the  mule  that  carried  the  milk,  there  leaned  a  young 
girl,  apparently  not  more  than  sixteen,  with  a  red  hood  sur¬ 
rounding  her  face,  which  was  all  the  more  baby-like  in  its 
prettiness  from  the  entire  concealment  of  her  hair.  The  poor 
child,  perhaps,  was  weary  after  her  labor  in  the  morning  twi¬ 
light  in  preparation  for  her  walk  to  market  from  some  castello 
three  or  four  miles  off,  for  she  seemed  to  have  gone  to  sleep 
in  that  half-standing,  half-leaning  posture.  Nevertheless,  our 
stranger  had  no  compunction  in  awaking  her ;  but  the  means 
he  chose  were  so  gentle,  that  it  seemed  to  the  damsel  in  her 
dream  as  if  a  little  sprig  of  thyme  had  touched  her  lips  while 


25 


ROMOLA. 


she  was  stooping  to  gather  the  herbs.  The  dream  was  broken, 
however,  for  she  opened  her  blue  baby-eyes,  and  started  up 
with  astonishment  and  confusion  to  see  the  young  stranger 
standing  close  before  her.  She  heard  him  speaking  to  her  in 
a  voice  which  seemed  so  strange  and  soft,  that  even  if  she  had 
been  more  collected  she  would  have  taken  it  for  granted  that 
he  said  something  hopelessly  unintelligible  to  her,  and  her 
first  movement  was  to  turn  her  head  a  little  away,  and  lift  up 
a  corner  of  her  green  serge  mantle  as  a  screen.  He  repeated 
his  words  — 

“  Forgive  me,  pretty  one,  for  awaking  you.  I ’m  dying  with 
hunger,  and  the  scent  of  milk  makes  breakfast  seem  more 
desirable  than  ever.” 

He  had  chosen  the  words  “muoio  di  fame,”  because  he  knew 
they  would  be  familiar  to  her  ears  ;  and  he  had  uttered  them 
playfully,  with  the  intonation  of  a  mendicant.  This  time  he 
was  understood ;  the  corner  of  the  mantle  was  dropped,  and  in 
a  few  moments  a  large  cup  of  fragrant  milk  was  held  out  to 
him.  He  paid  no  further  compliments  before  raising  it  to  his 
lips,  and  while  he  was  drinking,  the  little  maiden  found  cour¬ 
age  to  look  up  at  the  long  dark  curls  of  this  singular- voiced 
stranger,  who  had  asked  for  food  in  the  tones  of  a  beggar,  but 
who,  though  his  clothes  were  much  damaged,  was  unlike  any 
beggar  she  had  ever  seen. 

While  this  process  of  survey  was  going  on,  there  was  another 
current  of  feeling  that  carried  her  hand  into  a  bag  which  hung 
by  the  side  of  the  mule,  and  when  the  stranger  set  down  his 
cup,  he  saw  a  large  piece  of  bread  held  out  towards  him,  and 
caught  a  glance  of  the  blue  eyes  that  seemed  intended  as  an 
encouragement  to  him  to  take  this  additional  gift. 

“  But  perhaps  that  is  your  own  breakfast,”  he  said.  “  No, 
I  have  had  enough  without  payment.  A  thousand  thanks,  my 
gentle  one.” 

There  was  no  rejoinder  in  words  ;  but  the  piece  of  bread 
was  pushed  a  little  nearer  to  him,  as  if  in  impatience  at  his 
refusal ;  and  as  the  long  dark  eyes  of  the  stranger  rested  on 
the  baby-face,  it  seemed  to  be  gathering  more  and  more  courage 
to  look  up  and  meet  them. 


BREAKFAST  FOR  LOVE. 


29 


then,  if  I  must  take  the  bread,”  he  said,  laying  his 
hand  on  it,  “  I  shall  get  bolder  still,  and  beg  for  another  kiss 
to  make  the  bread  sweeter.” 

His  speech  was  getting  wonderfully  intelligible  in  spite  of 
the  strange  voice,  which  had  at  first  almost  seemed  a  thing  to 
make  her  cross  herself.  She  blushed  deeply,  and  lifted  up  a 
corner  of  her  mantle  to  her  mouth  again.  But  just  as  the 
too  presumptuous  stranger  was  leaning  forward,  and  had  his 
fingers  on  the  arm  that  held  up  the  screening  mantle,  he  was 
startled  by  a  harsh  voice  close  upon  his  ear. 

“  Who  are  you  —  with  a  murrain  to  you  ?  No  honest  buyer, 
I  ’ll  warrant,  but  a  hanger-on  of  the  dicers  —  or  something 
worse.  Go  !  dance  off,  and  find  fitter  company,  or  I  ’ll  give 
you  a  tune  to  a  little  quicker  time  than  you  ’ll  like.” 

The  young  stranger  drew  back  and  looked  at  the  speaker 
with  a  glance  provokingly  free  from  alarm  and  deprecation, 
and  his  slight  expression  of  saucy  amusement  broke  into  a 
broad  beaming  smile  as  he  surveyed  the  figure  of  his  threat- 
ener.  She  was  a  stout  but  brawny  woman,  with  a  man’s  jerkin 
slipped  over  her  green  serge  gamurra  or  gown,  and  the  peaked 
hood  of  some  departed  mantle  fastened  round  her  sunburnt 
face,  which,  under  all  its  coarseness  and  premature  wrinkles, 
showed  a  half-sad,  half-ludicrous  maternal  resemblance  to  the 
tender  baby -face  of  the  little  maiden  —  the  sort  of  resemblance 
which  often  seems  a  more  croaking,  shudder-creating  prophecy 
than  that  of  the  death’s-head. 

There  was  something  irresistibly  propitiating  in  that  bright 
young  smile,  but  Monna  Ghita  was  not  a  woman  to  betray  any 
weakness,  and  she  went  on  speaking,  apparently  with  height¬ 
ened  exasperation. 

“Yes,  yes,  you  can  grin  as  well  as  other  monkeys  in  cap  and 
jerkin.  You  ’re  a  minstrel  or  a  mountebank,  I  ’ll  be  sworn ; 
you  look  for  all  the  world  as  silly  as  a  tumbler  when  he ’s 
been  upside-down  and  has  got  on  his  heels  again.  And  what 
fool’s  tricks  hast  thou  been  after,  Tessa  ?  ”  she  added,  turning 
to  her  daughter,  whose  frightened  face  was  more  inviting  to 
abuse.  “  Giving  away  the  milk  and  victuals,  it  seems ;  ay,  ay, 
thou  ’dst  carry  water  in  thy  ears  for  any  idle  vagabond  that 


30 


KOMOLA. 


did  n’t  like  to  stoop  for  it,  thou  silly  staring  rabbit !  Turn 
thy  back,  and  lift  the  herbs  out  of  the  panniers,  else  I  ’ll  make 
thee  say  a  few  Aves  without  counting.” 

“Nay,  Madonna,”  said  the  stranger,  with  a  pleading  smile, 
“  don’t  be  angry  with  your  pretty  Tessa  for  taking  pity  on  a 
hungry  traveller,  who  found  himself  unexpectedly  without  a 
quattrino.  Your  handsome  face  looks  so  well  when  it  frowns, 
that  I  long  to  see  it  illuminated  by  a  smile.” 

“  Va  via  /  I  know  what  paste  you  are  made  of.  You  may 
tickle  me  with  that  straw  a  good  long  while  before  I  shall 
laugh,  I  can  tell  you.  Get  along,  with  a  bad  Easter  !  else  I  ’ll 
make  a  beauty-spot  or  two  on  that  face  of  yours  that  shall 
spoil  your  kissing  on  this  side  Advent.” 

As  Monna  Ghita  lifted  her  formidable  talons  by  way  of 
complying  with  the  first  and  last  requisite  of  eloquence,  Bratti, 
who  had  come  up  a  minute  or  two  before,  had  been  saying  to 
his  companion,  “What  think  you  of  this  pretty  parrot,  Nello  ? 
Does  n’t  his  tongue  smack  ®f  Venice  ?  ” 

“Nay,  Bratti,”  said  the  barber  in  an  undertone,  “thy  wis¬ 
dom  has  much  of  the  ass  in  it,  as  I  told  thee  just  now ;  espe¬ 
cially  about  the  ears.  This  stranger  is  a  Greek,  else  I ’m  not 
the  barber  who  has  had  the  sole  and  exclusive  shaving  of  the 
excellent  Demetrio,  and  drawn  more  than  one  sorry  tooth  from 
his  learned  jaw.  And  this  youth  might  be  taken  to  have  come 
straight  from  Olympus  —  at  least  when  he  has  had  a  touch  of 
my  razor.” 

“  Orsit !  Monna  Ghita !  ”  continued  Nello,  not  sorry  to  see 
some  sport ;  “  what  has  happened  to  cause  such  a  thunder-storm  ? 
Has  this  young  stranger  been  misbehaving  himself  ?” 

“  By  San  Giovanni !  ”  said  the  cautious  Bratti,  who  had  not 
shaken  off  his  original  suspicions  concerning  the  shabbily  clad 
possessor  of  jewels,  “  he  did  right  to  run  away  from  me,  if  he 
meant  to  get  into  mischief.  I  can  swear  that  I  found  him 
under  the  Loggia  de’  Cerchi,  with  a  ring  on  his  finger  such  as 
I  ’ve  seen  worn  by  Bernardo  Rucellai  himself.  Not  another 
rusty  nail’s  worth  do  I  know  about  him.” 

“The  fact  is,”  said  Nello,  eying  the  stranger  good-humoredly, 
“this  hello  has  been  a  little  too  presumptuous  in  ad- 


BREAKFAST  FOR  LOVE. 


81 


miring  the  charms  of  Monna  Ghita,  and  has  attempted  to  kiss 
her  while  her  daughter’s  back  is  turupd ;  for  I  observe  that  the 
pretty  Tessa  is  too  busy  to  look  this  way  at  present.  Was  it 
not  so,  Messer  ?  ”  Nello  concluded,  in  a  tone  of  courtesy. 

“  You  have  divined  the  offence  like  a  soothsayer,”  said  the 
stranger,  laughingly.  “  Only  that  I  had  not  the  good  for¬ 
tune  to  find  Monna  Ghita  here  at  first.  I  begged  a  cup  of 
milk  from  her  daughter,  and  had  accepted  this  gift  of  bread, 
for  which  I  was  making  a  humble  offering  of  gratitude,  before 
I  had  the  higher  pleasure  of  being  face  to  face  with  these 
riper  charms  wiiich  I  was  perhaps  too  bold  in  admiring.” 

Va,  va!  be  off,  every  one  of  you,  and  stay  in  purgatory  till 
I  pay  to  get  you  out,  will  you  ?  ”  said  Monna  Ghita,  fiercely, 
elbowing  Nello,  and  leading  forward  her  mule  so  as  to  compel 
the  stranger  to  jump  aside.  “  Tessa,  thou  simpleton,  bring 
forward  thy  mule  a  bit :  the  cart  will  be  upon  us.” 

As  Tessa  turned  to  take  the  mule’s  bridle,  she  cast  one  timid 
glance  at  the  stranger,  who  was  now  moving  with  Nello  out  of 
the  way  of  an  approaching  market-cart ;  and  the  glance  was 
just  long  enough  to  seize  the  beckoning  movement  of  his  hand, 
which  indicated  that  he  had  been  watching  for  this  opportunity 
of  an  adieu. 

‘‘  Ehbene,''^  said  Bratti,  raising  his  voice  to  speak  across  the 
cart ;  “  I  leave  you  with  Nello,  young  man,  for  there ’s  no 
pushing  my  bag  and  basket  any  farther,  and  I  have  business 
at  home.  But  you  ’ll  remember  our  bargain,  because  if  you 
found  Tessa  without  me,  it  was  not  my  fault.  Nello  will  show 
you  my  shop  in  the  Ferravecchi,  and  I  ’ll  not  turn  my  back  on 
you.” 

A  thousand  thanks,  friend  !  ”  said  the  stranger,  laughing, 
and  then  turned  away  with  Nello  up  the  narrow  street  which 
led  most  directly  to  the  Piazza  del  Duomo. 


32 


KOMOLA. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  BAKBER’s  shop. 

To  tell  you  the  truth,”  said  the  young  stranger  to  Nello, 
as  they  got  a  little  clearer  of  the  entangled  vehicles  and  mules, 
“  I  am  not  sorry  to  be  handed  over  by  that  patron  of  mine  to 
one  who  has  a  less  barbarous  accent,  and  a  less  enigmatical 
business.  Is  it  a  common  thing  among  you  Elorentines  for 
an  itinerant  trafficker  in  broken  glass  and  rags  to  talk  of  a 
shop  where  he  sells  lutes  and  swords?” 

“Common?  No:  our  Bratti  is  not  a  common  man.  He 
has  a  theory,  and  lives  up  to  it,  which  is  more  than  I  can  say 
for  any  philosopher  I  have  the  honor  of  shaving,”  answered 
Nello,  whose  loquacity,  like  an  over-full  bottle,  could  never 
pour  forth  a  small  dose.  “Bratti  means  to  extract  the  utmost 
possible  amount  of  pleasure,  that  is  to  say,  of  hard  bargaining, 
out  of  this  life ;  winding  it  up  with  a  bargain  for  the  easiest 
possible  passage  through  purgatory,  by  giving  Holy  Church  his 
winnings  when  the  game  is  over.  He  has  had  his  will  made 
to  that  effect  on  the  cheapest  terms  a  notary  could  be  got  for. 
But  I  have  often  said  to  him,  ‘  Bratti,  thy  bargain  is  a  limping 
one,  and  thou  art  on  the  lame  side  of  it.  Does  it  not  make 
thee  a  little  sad  to  look  at  the  pictures  of  the  Paradiso  ? 
Thou  wilt  never  be  able  there  to  chaffer  for  rags  and  rusty 
nails :  the  saints  and  angels  want  neither  pins  nor  tinder ;  and 
except  with  San  Bartolommeo,  who  carries  his  skin  about  in 
an  inconvenient  manner,  I  see  no  chance  of  thy  making  a  bar¬ 
gain  for  second-hand  clothing.’  But,  God  pardon  me,”  added 
Nello,  changing  his  tone,  and  crossing  himself,  “  this  light  talk 
ill  beseems  a  morning  when  Lorenzo  lies  dead,  and  the  Muses 
are  tearing  their  hair  —  always  a  painful  thought  to  a  barber  j 
and  you  yourself,  Messere,  are  probably  under  a  cloud,  for 
when  a  man  of  your  speech  and  presence  takes  up  with  so 
sorry  a  night’s  lodging,  it  argues  some  misfortune  to  have 
befallen  him.” 


THE  BARBER’S  SHOP. 


33 


What  ^Lorenzo  is  that  whose  death  you  speak  of  ?  ”  said 
the  stranger,  appearing  to  have  dwelt  with  too  anxious  an 
interest  on  this  point  to  have  noticed  the  indirect  inquiry  that 
followed  it. 

“  What  Lorenzo  ?  There  is  but  one  Lorenzo,  I  imagine, 
whose  death  could  throw  the  Mercato  into  an  uproar,  set  the 
lantern  of  the  Duomo  leaping  in  desperation,  and  cause  the 
lions  of  the  Republic  to  feel  under  an  immediate  necessity  to 
devour  one  another.  I  mean  Lorenzo  de’  Medici,  the  Pericles 
of  our  Athens  —  if  I  may  make  such  a  comparison  in  the  ear 
of  a  Greek.” 

‘‘Why  not?”  said  the  other,  laughingly;  “for  I  doubt 
whether  Athens,  even  in  the  days  of  Pericles,  could  have 
produced  so  learned  a  barber.” 

“Yes,  yes;  I  thought  I  could  not  be  mistaken,”  said  the 
rapid  Nello,  “  else  I  have  shaved  the  venerable  Demetrio  Cal- 
condila  to  little  purpose;  but  pardon  me,  I  am  lost  in  wonder: 
your  Italian  is  better  than  his,  though  he  has  been  in  Italy 
forty  years  —  better  even  than  that  of  the  accomplished  Ma- 
rullo,  who  may  be  said  to  have  married  the  Italic  Muse  in 
more  senses  than  one,  since  he  has  married  our  learned  and 
lovely  Alessandra  Scala.” 

“It  will  lighten  your  wonder  to  know  that  I  come  of  a 
Greek  stock  planted  in  Italian  soil  much  longer  than  the 
mulberry-trees  which  have  taken  so  kindly  to  it.  I  was  born 
at  Bari,  and  my  —  I  mean,  I  was  brought  up  by  an  Italian  —  and, 
in  fact,  I  am  a  Greek,  very  much  as  your  peaches  are  Persian. 
The  Greek  dye  was  subdued  in  me,  I  suppose,  till  I  had  been 
dipped  over  again  by  long  abode  and  much  travel  in  the  land 
of  gods  and  heroes.  And,  to  confess  something  of  my  private 
affairs  to  you,  this  same  Greek  dye,  with  a  few  ancient  gems 
I  have  about  me,  is  the  only  fortune  shipwreck  has  left  me. 
But  —  when  the  towers  fall,  you  know  it  is  an  ill  business  for 
the  small  nest-builders  —  the  death  of  your  Pericles  makes  me 
wish  I  had  rather  turned  my  steps  towards  Rome,  as  I  should 
have  done  but  for  a  fallacious  Minerva  in  the  shape  of  an 
Augustinian  monk.  ‘At  Rome,’  he  said,  ‘you  will  be  lost  in 
a  crowd  of  hungry  scholars  ;  but  at  Florence,  every  corner  is 

S 


VOL.  V. 


34 


ROMOLA. 


penetrated  by  the  sunshine  of  Lorenzo’s  patronages,:  Florence 
is  the  best  market  in  Italy  for  such  commodities  as  yours.’  ” 

“  Gnaffe,  and  so  it  will  remain,  I  hope,”  said  Nello.  ‘‘Lo¬ 
renzo  was  not  the  only  patron  and  judge  of  learning  in  our 
city  —  heaven  forbid  !  Because  he  was  a  large  melon,  every 
other  Florentine  is  not  a  pumpkin,  I  suppose.  Have  we  not 
Bernardo  Rucellai,  and  Alamanno  Einuccini,  and  plenty 
more  ?  And  if  you  want  to  be  informed  on  such  matters, 
I,  Hello,  am  your  man.  It  seems  to  me  a  thousand  years  till 
I  can  be  of  service  to  a  bel  erudito  like  yourself.  And,  first 
of  all,  in  the  matter  of  your  hair.  That  beard,  my  fine  young 
man,  must  be  parted  with,  were  it  as  dear  to  you  as  the  nymph 
of  your  dreams.  Here  at  Florence  we  love  not  to  see  a  man 
with  his  nose  projecting  over  a  cascade  of  hair.  But,  remem¬ 
ber,  you  will  have  passed  the  Eubicoci  when  once  you  have 
been  shaven :  if  you  repent,  and  let  your  beard  grow  after  it 
has  acquired  stoutness  by  a  struggle  with  the  razor,  your 
mouth  will  by-and-by  show  no  longer  what  Messer  Angelo 
calls  the  divine  prerogative  of  lips,  but  will  appear  like  a 
dark  cavern  fringed  with  horrent  brambles.” 

“That  is  a  terrible  prophecy,”  said  the  Greek,  “especially 
if  your  Florentine  maidens  are  many  of  them  as  pretty  as  the 
little  Tessa  I  stole  a  kiss  from  this  morning.” 

“Tessa?  she  is  a  rough-handed  contadina:  you  will  rise  into 
the  favor  of  dames  who  bring  no  scent  of  the  mule-stables  with 
them.  But  to  that  end,  you  must  not  have  the  air  of  a  sgherro, 
or  a  man  of  evil  repute :  you  must  look  like  a  courtier,  and  a 
scholar  of  the  more  polished  sort,  such  as  our  Pietro  Crinito 
—  like  one  who  sins  among  well-bred,  well-fed  people,  and  not 
one  who  sucks  down  vile  vino  di  sotto  in  a  chance  tavern.” 

“With  all  my  heart,”  said  the  stranger.  “If  the  Florentine 
Graces  demand  it,  I  am  willing  to  give  up  this  small  matter 
of  my  beard,  but  —  ” 

“Yes,  yes,”  interrupted  Hello.  “I  know  what  you  would 
say.  It  is  the  hella  zazzera  —  the  hyacinthine  locks,  you  do 
not  choose  to  part  with ;  and  there  is  no  need.  Just  a  little 
pruning  —  ecco  !  —  and  you  will  look  not  unlike  the  illustrious 
prince  Pico  di  Mirandola  in  his  prime.  And  here  we  are  in 


THE  BARBER’S  SHOP. 


35 


good  time  in  the  Piazza  San  Giovanni,  and  at  the  door  of  my 
shop.  But  you  are  pausing,  I  see :  naturally,  you  want  to  look 
at  our  wonder  of  the  world,  our  Duomo,  our  Santa  Maria  del 
Fiore.  Well,  well,  a  mere  glance;  but  I  beseech  you  to  leave 
a  closer  survey  till  you  have  been  shaved :  I  am  quivering 
with  the  inspiration  of  my  art  even  to  the  very  edge  of  my 
razor.  Ah,  then,  come  round  this  way.” 

The  mercurial  barber  seized  the  arm  of  the  stranger,  and  led 
him  to  a  point,  on  the  south  side  of  the  piazza,  from  which  he 
could  see  at  once  the  huge  dark  shell  of  the  cupola,  the  slender 
soaring  grace  of  Giotto’s  campanile,  and  the  quaint  octagon  of 
San  Giovanni  in  front  of  them,  showing  its  unique  gates  of 
storied  bronze,  which  still  bore  the  somewhat  dimmed  glory 
of  their  original  gilding.  The  inlaid  marbles  were  then  fresher 
in  their  pink,  and  white,  and  purple,  than  they  are  now,  when 
the  winters  of  four  centuries  have  turned  their  white  to  the 
rich  ochre  of  well-mellowed  meerschaum ;  the  fa9ade  of  the 
cathedral  did  not  stand  ignominious  in  faded  stucco,  but  had 
upon  it  the  magnificent  promise  of  the  half-completed  marble 
inlaying  and  statued  niches,  which  Giotto  had  devised  a  hun¬ 
dred  and  fifty  years  before ;  and  as  the  campanile  in  all  its 
harmonious  variety  of  color  and  form  led  the  eyes  upward, 
high  into  the  clear  air  of  this  April  morning,  it  seemed  a  pro¬ 
phetic  symbol,  telling  that  human  life  must  somehow  and 
some  time  shape  itself  into  accord  with  that  pure  aspiring 
beauty. 

But  this  was  not  the  impression  it  appeared  to  produce  on 
the  Greek.  His  eyes  were  irresistibly  led  upward,  but  as  he 
stood  with  his  arms  folded  and  his  curls  falling  backward, 
there  was  a  slight  touch  of  scorn  on  his  lip,  and  when  his  eyes 
fell  again  they  glanced  round  with  a  scanning  coolness  which 
was  rather  piquing  to  Hello’s  Florentine  spirit. 

“  Well,  my  fine  young  man,”  he  said,  with  some  impatience, 
“  you  seem  to  make  as  little  of  our  Cathedral  as  if  you  were  the 
angel  Gabriel  come  straight  from  Paradise.  I  should  like  to 
know  if  you  have  ever  seen  finer  work  than  our  Giotto’s  tower, 
or  any  cupola  that  would  not  look  a  mere  mushroom  by  the 
side  of  Brunelleschi’s  there,  or  any  marbles  finer  or  more  cun- 


86 


ROMOLA. 


ningly  wrought  than  these  that  our  Signoria  got  from  far-off 
quarries,  at  a  price  that  would  buy' a  dukedom.  Come,  now, 
have  you  ever  seen  anything  to  equal  them  ?  ” 

‘^If  you  asked  me  that  question  with  a  cimeter  at  my  throat, 
after  the  Turkish  fashion,  or  even  your  own  razor,”  said  the 
young  Greek,  smiling  gayly,  and  moving  on  towards  the  gates 
of  the  Baptistery,  “  I  dare  say  you  might  get  a  confession  of 
the  true  faith  from  me.  But  with  my  throat  free  from  peril, 
I  venture  to  tell  you  that  your  buildings  smack  too  much  of 
Christian  barbarism  for  my  taste.  I  have  a  shuddering  sense 
of  what  there  is  inside  —  hideous  smoked  Madonnas ;  fleshless 
saints  in  mosaic,  staring  down  idiotic  astonishment  and  re¬ 
buke  from  the  apse ;  skin-clad  skeletons  hanging  on  crosses,  or 
stuck  all  over  with  arrows,  or  stretched  on  gridirons ;  women 
and  monks  with  heads  aside  in  perpetual  lamentation.  I  have 
seen  enough  of  those  wry-necked  favorites  of  heaven  at  Con¬ 
stantinople.  But  what  is  this  bronze  door  rough  with  im¬ 
agery  ?  These  women’s  figures  seem  moulded  in  a  different 
spirit  from  those  starved  and  staring  saints  I  spoke  of :  these 
heads  in  high  relief  speak  of  a  human  mind  within  them, 
instead  of  looking  like  an  index  to  perpetual  spasms  and 
colic.” 

“Yes,  yes,”  said  Nello,  with  some  triumph.  “I  think  we 
shall  show  you  by-and-by  that  our  Florentine  art  is  not  in  a 
state  of  barbarism.  These  gates,  my  fine  young  man,  were 
moulded  half  a  century  ago,  by  our  Lorenzo  Ghiberti,  when 
he  counted  hardly  so  many  years  as  you  do.” 

“  Ah,  I  remember,”  said  the  stranger,  turning  away,  like  one 
whose  appetite  for  contemplation  was  soon  satisfied.  “  I  hare 
heard  that  your  Tuscan  sculptors  and  painters  have  been 
studying  the  antique  a  little.  But  with  monks  for  models, 
and  the  legends  of  mad  hermits  and  martyrs  for  subjects,  the 
vision  of  Olympus  itself  would  be  of  small  use  to  them.” 

“I  understand,”  said  ISTello,  with  a  significant  shrug,  as  they 
walked  along.  “  You  are  of  the  same  mind  as  Michele  Marullo, 
ay,  and  as  Angelo  Poliziano  himself,  in  spite  of  his  canoni- 
cate,  when  he  relaxes  himself  a  little  in  my  shop  after  his 
lectures,  and  talks  of  the  gods  awaking  from  their  long  sleep 


THE  BARBER’S  SHOP. 


37 


and  making  the  woods  and  streams  vital  once  more.  But  he 
rails  against  the  Roman  scholars  who  want  to  make  us  all  talk 
Latin  again  :  ‘  My  ears/  he  says,  ‘  are  sufficiently  flayed  by  the 
barbarisms  of  the  learned,  and  if  the  vulgar  are  to  talk  Latin 
I  would  as  soon  have  been  in  Florence  the  day  they  took  to 
beating  all  the  kettles  in  the  city  because  the  bells  were  not 
enough  to  stay  the  wrath  of  the  saints.’  Ah,  Messer  Greco, 
if  you  want  to  know  the  flavor  of  our  scholarship,  you  must 
frequent  my  shop  :  it  is  the  focus  of  Florentine  intellect,  and 
in  that  sense  the  navel  of  the  earth  —  as  my  great  predecessor, 
Burchiello,  said  of  his  shop,  on  the  more  frivolous  pretension 
that  his  street  of  the  Calimara  was  the  centre  of  our  city. 
And  here  we  are  at  the  sign  of  -Apollo  and  the  Razor.’ 
Apollo,  you  see,  is  bestowing  the  razor  on  the  Triptolemus  of 
our  craft,  the  first  reaper  of  beards,  the  sublime  Anonimo, 
whose  mysterious  identity  is  indicated  by  a  shadowy  hand.” 

“  I  see  thou  hast  had  custom  already,  Sandro,”  continued 
Nello,  addressing  a  solemn-looking  dark-eyed  youth,  who  made 
way  for  them  on  the  threshold.  “  And  now  make  all  clear  for 
this  signor  to  sit  down.  And  prepare  the  finest-scented  lather, 
for  he  has  a  learned  and  a  handsome  chin.” 

“  You  have  a  pleasant  little  adytum  there,  I  see,”  said  the 
stranger,  looking  through  a  latticed  screen  which  divided  the 
shop  from  a  room  of  about  equal  size,  opening  into  a  still 
smaller  walled  enclosure,  where  a  few  bays  and  laurels  sur¬ 
rounded  a  stone  Hermes.  “  I  suppose  your  conclave  of  eruditi 
meets  there  ?  ” 

“  There,  and  not  less  in  my  shop,”  said  Nello,  leading  the 
way  into  the  inner  room,  in  which  were  some  benches,  a  table, 
with  one  book  in  manuscript  and  one  printed  in  capitals  lying 
open  upon  it,  a  lute,  a  few  oil-sketches,  and  a  model  or  two  of 
hands  and  ancient  masks.  “For  my  shop  is  a  no  less  fitting 
haunt  of  the  Muses,  as  you  will  acknowledge  when  you  feel 
the  sudden  illumination  of  understanding  and  the  serene  vigor 
of  inspiration  that  will  come  to  you  with  a  clear  chin.  Ah  ! 
you  can  make  that  lute  discourse,  I  perceive.  I,  too,  have 
some  skill  that  way,  though  the  serenata  is  useless  when  day¬ 
light  discloses  a  visage  like  mine,  looking  no  fresher  than  an 


38 


ROMOLA. 


apple  that  has  stood  the  winter.  But  look  at  that  sketch :  it 
is  a  fancy  of  Piero  di  Cosimo’s,  a  strange  freakish  painter,  who 
says  he  saw  it  by  long  looking  at  a  mouldy  wall.” 

The  sketch  Nello  pointed  to  represented  three  masks  —  one 
a  drunken  laughing  Satyr,  another  a  sorrowing  Magdalen,  and 
the  third,  which  lay  between  them,  the  rigid,  cold  face  of  a 
Stoic  :  the  masks  rested  obliquely  on  the  lap  of  a  little  child, 
whose  cherub  features  rose  above  them  with  something  of  the 
supernal  promise  in  the  gaze  which  painters  had  by  that  time 
learned  to  give  to  the  Divine  Infant. 

“  A  symbolical  picture,  I  see,”  said  the  young  Greek,  touch 
ing  the  lute  while  he  spoke,  so  as  to  bring  out  a  slight  musical 
murmur.  “  The  child,  perhaps,  is  the  Golden  Age,  wanting 
neither  worship  nor  philosophy.  And  the  Golden  Age  can  al¬ 
ways  come  back  as  long  as  men  are  born  in  the  form  of  babies, 
and  don’t  come  into  the  world  in  cassock  or  furred  mantle. 
Or  the  child  may  mean  the  wise  philosophy  of  Epicurus,  re¬ 
moved  alike  from  the  gross,  the  sad,  and  the  severe.” 

‘‘  Ah !  everybody  has  his  own  interpretation  for  that  pic¬ 
ture,”  said  Nello  ;  ‘‘and  if  you  ask  Piero  himself  what  he 
meant  by  it,  he  says  his  pictures  are  an  appendix  which  Mes¬ 
ser  Domeneddio  has  been  pleased  to  make  to  the  universe,  and 
if  any  man  is  in  doubt  what  they  mean,  he  had  better  inquire 
of  Holy  Church.  He  has  been  asked  to  paint  a  picture  after 
the  sketch,  but  he  puts  his  fingers  to  his  ears  and  shakes  his 
head  at  that ;  the  fancy  is  past,  he  says  —  a  strange  animal, 
our  Piero.  But  now  all  is  ready  for  your  initiation  into  the 
mysteries  of  the  razor.” 

“  Mysteries  they  may  well  be  called,”  continued  the  barber, 
with  rising  spirits  at  the  prospect  of  a  long  monologue,  as  he 
imprisoned  the  young  Greek  in  the  shroud-like  shaving-cloth ; 
“  mysteries  of  Minerva  and  the  Graces.  I  get  the  flower  of 
men’s  thoughts,  because  I  seize  them  in  the  first  moment  after 
shaving.  (Ah  !  you  wince  a  little  at  the  lather :  it  tickles  the 
outlying  limits  of  the  nose,  I  admit.)  And  that  is  what  makes 
the  peculiar  fitness  of  a  barber’s  shop  to  become  a  resort  of 
wit  and  learning.  Eor,  look  now  at  a  druggist’s  shop  :  there  is 
a  dull  conclave  at  the  sign  of  ‘  The  Moor,’  that  pretends  to  rival 


THE  BARBER’S  SHOP. 


89 


mine ;  but  what  sort  of  inspiration,  I  beseech  you,  can  be  got 
from  the  scent  of  nauseous  vegetable  decoctions  ?  —  to  say 
nothing  of  the  fact  that  you  no  sooner  pass  the  threshold  than 
you  see  a  doctor  of  physic,  like  a  gigantic  spider  disguised  in 
fur  and  scarlet,  waiting  for  his  prey ;  or  even  see  him  block¬ 
ing  up  the  doorway  seated  on  a  bony  hack,  inspecting  saliva, 
(Your  chin  a  little  elevated,  if  it  please  you  :  contemplate  that 
angel  who  is  blowing  the  trumpet  at  you  from  the  ceiling.  I 
had  it  painted  expressly  for  the  regulation  of  my  clients’ 
chins.)  Besides,  your  druggist,  who  herborizes  and  decocts, 
is  a  man  of  prejudices  :  he  has  poisoned  people  according  to  a 
system,  and  is  obliged  to  stand  up  for  his  system  to  justify 
the  consequences.  Now  a  barber  can  be  dispassionate  ;  the 
only  thing  he  necessarily  stands  by  is  the  razorj  always  pro¬ 
viding  he  is  not  an  author.  That  was  the  flaw  in  my  great 
predecessor  Burchiello :  he  was  a  poet,  and  had  consequently 
a  prejudice  about  his  own  poetry.  I  have  escaped  that ;  I 
saw  very  early  that  authorship  is  a  narrowing  business,  in 
conflict  with  the  liberal  art  of  the  razor,  which  demands  an 
impartial  affection  for  all  men’s  chins.  Ecco,  Messer  !  the 
outline  of  your  chin  and  lip  is  as  clear  as  a  maiden’s ;  and 
now  fix  your  mind  on  a  knotty  question  —  ask  yourself  whether 
you  are  bound  to  spell  Virgil  with  an  i  or  an  e,  and  say  if  yov 
do  not  feel  an  unwonted  clearness  on  the  point.  Only,  if  you 
decide  for  the  ^,  keep  it  to  yourself  till  j'^our  fortune  is  made^ 
for  the  e  hath  the  stronger  following  in  Florence.  Ah  !  1 
think  I  see  a  gleam  of  still  quicker  wit  in  your  eye.  I  have 
it  on  the  authority  of  our  young  lSriccol5  Macchiavelli,  himself 
keen  enough  to  discern  il  pelo  nelV  uovo,  as  we  say,  and  a 
great  lover  of  delicate  shaving,  though  his  beard  is  hardly  of 
two  years’  date,  that  no  sooner  do  the  hairs  begin  to  push 
themselves,  than  he  perceives  a  certain  grossness  of  apprehem 
sion  creeping  over  him.” 

“Suppose  you  let  me  look  at  myself,”  said  the  stranger, 
laughing.  “The  happy  effect  on  my  intellect  is  perhaps  ob¬ 
structed  by  a  little  doubt  as  to  the  effect  on  my  appearance.” 

“Behold  yourself  in  this  mirror,  then;  it  is  a  Venetian 
mirror  from  Murano,  the  true  nosce  teipsum,  as  I  have  named 


40 


KOMOLA. 


it,  compared  with  which  the  finest  mirror  of  steel  or  silver  is 
mere  darkness.  See  now,  how  by  diligent  shaving  the  nether 
region  of  your  face  may  preserve  its  human  outline,  instead  of 
presenting  no  distinction  from  the  physiognomy  of  a  bearded 
owl  or  a  Barbary  ape.  I  have  seen  men  whose  beards  have  so 
invaded  their  cheeks,  that  one  might  have  pitied  them  as  the 
victims  of  a  sad,  brutalizing  chastisement  befitting  our  Dante’s 
Inferno,  if  they  had  not  seemed  to  strut  with  a  strange  triumph 
in  their  extravagant  hairiness.” 

“  It  seems  to  me,”  said  the  Greek,  still  looking  into  the 
mirror,  “that  you  have  taken  away  some  of  my  capital  with 
your  razor  —  I  mean  a  year  or  two  of  age,  which  might  have 
won  me  more  ready  credit  for  my  learning.  Under  the  in¬ 
spection  of  a  patron  whose  vision  has  grown  somewhat  dim, 
I  shall  have  a  perilous  resemblance  to  a  maiden  of  eighteen  in 
the  disguise  of  hose  and  jerkin.” 

“Not  at  all,”  said  Nello,  proceeding  to  clip  the  too  extrav¬ 
agant  curls ;  “  your  proportions  are  not  those  of  a  maiden. 
And  for  your  age,  I  myself  remember  seeing  Angelo  Poliziano 
begin  his  lectures  on  the  Latin  language  when  he  had  a 
younger  beard  than  yours ;  and  between  ourselves,  his  juvenile 
ugliness  was  not  less  signal  than  his  precocious  scholarship. 
Whereas  you  —  no,  no,  your  age  is  not  against  you ;  but  be¬ 
tween  ourselves,  let  me  hint  to  you  that  your  being  a  Greek, 
though  it  be  only  an  Apulian  Greek,  is  not  in  your  favor. 
Certain  of  our  scholars  hold  that  your  Greek  learning  is  but 
a  wayside  degenerate  plant  until  it  has  been  transplanted  into 
Italian  brains,  and  that  now  there  is  such  a  plentiful  crop  of 
the  superior  quality,  your  native  teachers  are  mere  propaga¬ 
tors  of  degeneracy.  Ecco  !  your  curls  are  now  of  the  right 
proportion  to  neck  and  shoulders  ;  rise,  Messer,  and  I  will  free 
you  from  the  incumbrance  of  this  cloth.  Gnaffe  !  I  almost 
advise  you  to  retain  the  faded  jerkin  and  hose  a  little  longer ; 
they  give  you  the  air  of  a  fallen  prince.” 

“  But  the  question  is,”  said  the  young  Greek,  leaning  against 
the  high  back  of  a  chair,  and  returning  Nello’s  contemplative 
admiration  with  a  look  of  inquiring  anxiety —  “the  question 
is,  in  what  quarter  I  am  to  carry  my  princely  air,  so  as  to  rise 


THE  BARBER’S  SHOP. 


41 


trom  the  said  fallen  condition.  If  your  Florentine  patrons  of 
learning  share  this  scholarly  hostility  to  the  Greeks,  I  see  not 
how  your  city  can  be  a  hospitable  refuge  for  me,  as  you 
seemed  to  say  just  now.’’ 

Pia7i  piano  —  not  so  fast,”  said  Nello,  sticking  his  thumbs 
into  his  belt  and  nodding  to  Sandro  to  restore  order.  ‘‘  I  will 
not  conceal  from  you  that  there  is  a  prejudice  against  Greeks 
among  us  ;  and  though,  as  a  barber  unsnared  by  authorship, 
I  share  no  prejudices,  I  must  admit  that  the  Greeks  are  not 
always  such  pretty  youngsters  as  yourself ;  their  erudition  is 
often  of  an  uncombed,  unmannerly  aspect,  and  incrusted  with 
a  barbarous  utterance  of  Italian,  that  makes  their  converse 
hardly  more  euphonious  than  that  of  a  Tedesco  in  a  state  of 
vinous  loquacity.  And  then,  again,  excuse  me  —  we  Floren¬ 
tines  have  liberal  ideas  about  speech,  and  consider  that  an  in¬ 
strument  which  can  flatter  and  promise  so  cleverly  as  the 
tongue,  must  have  been  partly  made  for  those  purposes ;  and 
that  truth  is  a  riddle  for  eyes  and  wit  to  discover,  which  it 
were  a  mere  spoiling  of  sport  for  the  tongue  to  betray.  Still 
we  have  our  limits  beyond  which  we  call  dissimulation  treach¬ 
ery.  But  it  is  said  of  the  Greeks  that  their  honesty  begins  at 
what  is  the  hanging-point  with  us,  and  that  since  the  old 
Furies  went  to  sleep,  your  Christian  Greek  is  of  so  easy  a  con¬ 
science  that  he  would  make  a  stepping-stone  of  his  father’s 
corpse.” 

The  flush  on  the  stranger’s  face  indicated  what  seemed  so 
natural  a  movement  of  resentment,  that  the  good-natured  Nello 
hastened  to  atone  for  his  want  of  reticence. 

“  Be  not  offended,  hel  giovane ;  I  am  but  repeating  what  I 
hear  in  my  shop  ;  as  you  may  perceive,  my  eloquence  is  simply 
the  cream  which  I  skim  off  my  clients’  talk.  Heaven  forbid 
I  should  fetter  my  impartiality  by  entertaining  an  opinion. 
And  for  that  same  scholarly  objection  to  the  Greeks,”  added 
Nello,  in  a  more  mocking  tone,  and  with  a  significant  grimace, 
“  the  fact  is,  you  are  heretics,  Messer ;  jealousy  has  nothing 
to  do  with  it :  if  you  would  just  change  your  opinion  about 
leaven,  and  alter  your  Doxology  a  little,  our  Italian  scholars 
would  think  it  a  thousand  years  till  they  could  give  up  their 


42 


ROMOLA. 


chairs  to  you.  Yes,  yes  ;  it  is  chiefly  religious  scruple,  and 
partly  also  the  authority  of  a  great  classic,  —  Juvenal,  is  it 
not  ?  He,  I  gather,  had  his  bile  as  much  stirred  by  the 
swarm  of  Greeks  as  our  Messer  Angelo,  who  is  fond  of  quoting 
some  passage  about  their  incorrigible  impudence  —  audacia 
'perdita.'’’ 

“  Pooh  !  the  passage  is  a  compliment,”  said  the  Greek,  who 
had  recovered  himself,  and  seemed  wise  enough  to  take  the 
matter  gayly  — 

“  ‘  Ingenium  velox,  audacia  perdita,  sermo 
Promptus,  et  Isseo  torrentior.’ 

A  rapid  intellect  and  ready  eloquence  may  carry  off  a  little 
impudence.” 

‘‘Assuredly,”  said  Hello.  “And  since,  as  I  see,  you  know 
Latin  literature  as  well  as  Greek,  you  will  not  fall  into  the  mis¬ 
take  of  Giovanni  Argiropulo,  who  ran  full  tilt  against  Cicero, 
and  pronounced  him  all  but  a  pumpkin-head.  For,  let  me  give 
you  one  bit  of  advice,  young  man — trust  a  barber  who  has 
shaved  the  best  chins,  and  kept  his  eyes  and  ears  open  for 
twenty  years  —  oil  your  tongue  well  when  you  talk  of  the  an¬ 
cient  Latin  writers,  and  give  it  an  extra  dip  when  you  talk  of 
the  modern.  A  wise  Greek  may  win  favor  among  us ;  witness 
our  excellent  Demetrio,  who  is  loved  by  many,  and  not  hated 
immoderately  even  by  the  most  renowned  scholars.” 

“  I  discern  the  wisdom  of  your  advice  so  clearly,”  said  the 
Greek,  with  the  bright  smile  which  was  continually  lighting 
up  the  fine  form  and  color  of  his  young  face,  “  that  I  will  ask 
you  for  a  little  more.  Who  now,  for  example,  would  be  the 
most  likely  patron  for  me  ?  Is  there  a  son  of  Lorenzo  who  in¬ 
herits  his  taste  ?  Or  is  there  any  other  wealthy  Florentine 
specially  addicted  to  purchasing  antique  gems  ?  I  have  a  fine 
Cleopatra  cut  in  sardonyx,  and  one  or  two  other  intaglios  and 
cameos,  both  curious  and  beautiful,  worthy  of  being  added  to 
the  cabinet  of  a  prince.  Happily,  I  had  taken  the  precaution 
of  fastening  them  within  the  lining  of  my  doublet  before  I 
set  out  on  my  voyage.  Moreover,  I  should  like  to  raise  a 
small  sum  for  my  present  need  on  this  ring  of  mine  ”  (here  ha 


THE  BARBER’S  SHOP.  43 

took  out  the  ring  and  replaced  it  on  his  finger),  “  if  you  could 
recommend  me  to  any  honest  trafficker.’’ 

“  Let  us  see,  let  us  see,”  said  Nello,  perusing  the  floor,  and 
walking  up  and  down  the  length  of  his  shop.  “  This  is  no 
time  to  apply  to  Piero  de’  Medici,  though  he  has  the  will  to 
make  such  purchases  if  he  could  always  spare  the  money ;  but 
I  think  it  is  another  sort  of  Cleopatra  that  he  covets  most.  .  .  . 
Yes,  yes,  [  have  it.  What  you  want  is  a  man  of  wealth,  and 
influence,  and  scholarly  tastes  —  not  one  of  your  learned  por¬ 
cupines,  bristling  all  over  with  critical  tests,  but  one  whose 
Greek  and  Latin  are  of  a  comfortable  laxity.  And  that  man 
is  Bartolommeo  Scala,  the  secretary  of  our  Republic.  He  came 
to  Florence  as  a  poor  adventurer  himself  —  a  miller’s  son  —  a 
‘branny  monster,’  as  he  has  been  nicknamed  by  our  honey¬ 
lipped  Poliziano,  who  agrees  with  him  as  well  as  my  teeth 
agree  with  lemon-juice.  And,  by  the  bye,  that  may  be  a  reason 
why  the  secretary  may  be  the  more  ready  to  do  a  good  turn 
to  a  strange  scholar.  For,  between  you  and  me,  bel  giovane  — 
trust  a  barber  who  has  shaved  the  best  scholars  —  friendliness 
is  much  such  a  steed  as  Ser  Benghi’s  :  it  will  hardly  show 
much  alacrity  unless  it  has  got  the  thistle  of  hatred  under  its 
tail.  However,  the  secretary  is  a  man  who  ’ll  keep  his  word 
to  you,  even  to  the  halving  of  a  fennel-seed  ;  and  he  is  not 
unlikely  to  buy  some  of  your  gems.” 

“  But  how  am  I  to  get  at  this  great  man  ?  ”  said  the  Greek, 
rather  impatiently. 

“I  was  coming  to  that,”  said  Nello.  “Just  now  everybody 
of  any  public  importance  will  be  full  of  Lorenzo’s  death,  and  a 
stranger  may  find  it  difficult  to  get  any  notice.  But  in  the 
mean  time  I  could  take  you  to  a  man  who,  if  he  has  a  mind, 
can  help  you  to  a  chance  of  a  favorable  interview  with  Scala 
sooner  than  anybody  else  in  Florence  —  worth  seeing  for  his 
own  sake  too,  to  say  nothing  of  his  collections,  or  of  his 
daughter  Romola,  who  is  as  fair  as  the  Florentine  lily  before 
it  got  quarrelsome  and  turned  red.” 

“But  if  this  father  of  the  beautiful  Romola  makes  collec¬ 
tions,  why  should  he  not  like  to  buy  some  of  my  gem? 
himself  ?  ^ 


44 


ROMOLA. 


Kello  shrugged  his  shoulders.  “  For  two  good  reasons  — 
want  of  sight  to  look  at  the  gems,  and  want  of  money  to  pay 
for  them.  Our  old  Bardo  de’  Bardi  is  so  blind  that  he  can 
see  no  more  of  his  daughter  than,  as  he  says,  a  glimmering  of 
something  bright  when  she  comes  very  near  him :  doubtless 
her  golden  hair,  which,  as  Messer  Luigi  Pulci  says  of  his 
Meridiana’s,  ‘  raggia  come  stella  per  sereno’  Ah,  here  come 
some  clients  of  mine,  and  I  should  n’t  wonder  if  one  of  them 
could  serve  your  turn  about  that  ring.” 


CHAPTER  IV. 

FIRST  IMPRESSIONS. 

“Good-day,  Messer  Domenico,”  said  Nello  to  the  foremost 
of  the  two  visitors  who  entered  the  shop,  while  he  nodded 
silently  to  the  other.  “  You  come  as  opportunely  as  cheese  on 
macaroni.  Ah  !  you  are  in  haste  —  wish  to  be  shaved  with¬ 
out  delay  —  ecco  !  And  this  is  a  morning  when  every  one 
has  grave  matter  on  his  mind.  Florence  orphaned.  —  the  very 
pivot  of  Italy  snatched  away  —  heaven  itself  at  a  loss  what  to 
do  next.  Oime  !  Well,  well;  the  sun  is  nevertheless  travel¬ 
ling  on  towards  dinner-time  again ;  and,  as  I  was  saying,  you 
come  like  cheese  ready  grated.  For  this  young  stranger  was 
wishing  for  an  honorable  trader  who  would  advance  him  a 
sum  on  a  certain  ring  of  value,  and  if  I  had  counted  every 
goldsmith  and  money-lender  in  Florence  on  my  fingers  I 
could  n’t  have  found  a  better  name  than  Menico  Cennini. 
Besides,  he  hath  other  ware  in  which  you  deal  —  Greek  learn¬ 
ing  and  young  eyes  —  a  double  implement  which  you  printers 
are  always  in  need  of.” 

The  grave  elderly  man,  son  of  that  Bernardo  Cennini,  who, 
twenty  years  before,  having  heard  of  the  new  process  of  print¬ 
ing  carried  on  by  Germans,  had  cast  his  own  types  in  Florence, 


FIRST  IMPRESSIONS. 


45 


remained  necessarily  in  lathered  silence  and  passivity  while 
Nello  showered  this  talk  in  his  ears,  but  turned  a  slow  side¬ 
way  gaze  on  the  stranger. 

“  This  fine  young  man  has  unlimited  Greek,  Latin,  or  Italian 
at  your  service,”  continued  Nello,  fond  of  interpreting  by  very 
ample  paraphrase.  ‘‘  He  is  as  great  a  wonder  of  juvenile 
learning  as  Francesco  Filelfo  or  our  own  incomparable  Polizi- 
auo.  A  second  Guarino,  too,  for  he  has  had  the  misfortune  to 
be  shipwrecked,  and  has  doubtless  lost  a  store  of  precious 
manuscripts  that  might  have  contributed  some  correctness 
even  to  your  correct  editions,  Domenico.  Fortunately,  he  has 
rescued  a  few  gems  of  rare  value.  His  name  is  —  you  said 
your  name,  Messer,  was  —  ?  ” 

‘‘Tito  Melema,”  said  the  stranger,  slipping  the  ring  from 
his  finger  and  presenting  it  to  Cennini,  whom  Nello,  not  less 
rapid  with  his  razor  than  with  his  tongue,  had  now  released 
from  the  shaving-cloth. 

Meanwhile  the  man  who  had  entered  the  shop  in  company 
with  the  goldsmith  —  a  tall  figure,  about  fifty,  with  a  short- 
trimmed  beard,  wearing  an  old  felt  hat  and  a  threadbare 
mantle  —  had  kept  his  eye  fixed  on  the  Greek,  and  now  said 
abruptly  — 

“  Young  man,  I  am  painting  a  picture  of  Sinon  deceiving 
old  Priam,  and  I  should  be  glad  of  your  face  for  my  Sinon,  if 
you ’d  give  me  a  sitting  ” 

Tito  Melema  started  and  looked  round  with  a  pale  astonish¬ 
ment  in  his  face,  as  if  at  a  sudden  accusation  ;  but  Nello  left 
him  no  time  to  feel  at  a  loss  for  an  answer  :  “  Piero,”  said  the 
barber,  “thou  art  the  most  extraordinary  compound  of  humors 
and  fancies  ever  packed  into  a  human  skin.  What  trick  wilt 
thou  play  with  the  fine  visage  of  this  young  scholar  to  make 
it  suit  thy  traitor  ?  Ask  him  rather  to  turn  his  eyes  upward, 
and  thou  mayst  make  a  Saint  Sebastian  of  him  that  will  draw 
troops  of  devout  women  ;  or,  if  thou  art  in  a  classical  vein, 
put  myrtle  about  his  curls  and  make  him  a  young  Bacchus,  or 
say  rather  a  Phoebus  Apollo,  for  his  face  is  as  warm  and  bright 
as  a  summer  morning  j  it  made  me  his  friend  in  the  space  of 
a  ‘  credo.’  ” 


46 


ROMOLA. 


‘^Ay,  Nello,”  said  the  painter,  speaking,  'Mth  abrupt  pauses  j 
“  and  if  thy  tongue  can  leave  olf  its  everlasting  chirping  long 
enough  for  thy  understanding  to  consider  the  matter,  thou 
mayst  see  that  thou  hast  just  shown  die  reason  why  the  face 
of  Messere  will  suit  my  traitor.  A  jvu’fect  traitor  should  have 
a  face  which  vice  can  write  no  ma;ks  on  —  lips  that  will  lie 
with  a  dimpled  smile  —  eyes  of  suirh  agate-like  brightness  and 
depth  that  no  infamy  can  dull  them  —  cheeks  that  will  rise 
from  a  murder  and  not  look  haggard.  I  say  not  this  young 
man  is  a  traitor  :  I  mean,  he  Las  a  face  that  would  make 
him  the  more  perfect  traitor  if  ho  had  the  heart  of  one,  which 
IS  saying  neither  more  nor  less  than  that  he  has  a  beautiful 
face,  informed  with  rich  young  blood,  that  will  be  nourished 
enough  by  food,  and  keep  its  color  without  much  help  of 
virtue.  He  may  have  the  hea^rt  of  a  hero  along  with  it ;  I 
aver  nothing  to  the  contrary.  Ask  Domenico  there  if  the 
lapidaries  can  always  tell  a  gem  by  the  sight  alone.  And 
now  I ’m  going  to  put  the  tow  in  my  ears,  for  thy  chatter  and 
the  bells  together  are  more  than  I  can  endure :  so  say  no  more 
to  me,  but  trim  my  beard.” 

With  these  last  words  Piero  (called  “  di  Cosimo,”  from  his 
master,  Cosimo  Rosselli)  drew  out  two  bits  of  tow,  stuffed 
them  in  his  ears,  and  placed  himself  in  the  chair  before  Nello, 
who  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  cast  a  grimacing  look  of  in¬ 
telligence  at  the  Greek,  as  much  as  to  say,  “  A  whimsical 
fellow,  you  perceive  !  Everybody  holds  his  speeches  as  mere 
jokes.” 

Tito,  who  had  stood  transfi^^ed,  with  his  long  dark  eyes  rest 
ing  on  the  unknown  man  who  had  addressed  him  so  equivo¬ 
cally,  seemed  recalled  to  his  self-command  by  Piero’s  change 
of  position,  and  apparently  satisfied  with  his  explanation,  was 
again  giving  his  attention  to  Cennini,  who  presently  said  — 

‘‘This  is  a  curious  and  valuable  ring,  young  man.  This 
intaglio  of  the  fish  with  the  crested  serpent  above  it,  in  the 
black  stratum  of  the  onyx,  or  rather  nicolo,  is  well  shown  by 
the  surrounding  blue  of  the  upper  stratum.  The  ring  has 
doubtless  a  history  ?  ”  added  Cennini,  looking  up  keenly  at 
the  young  stranger. 


FIRST  IMPRESSIONS. 


47 


*‘Yes,  indeed,”  said  Tito,  meeting  the  scrutiny  very  frankly. 
‘‘The  ring  was  found  in  Sicily,  and  I  have  understood  from 
those  who  busy  themselves  with  gems  and  sigils,  that  both 
the  stone  and  intaglio  are  of  virtue  to  make  the  wearer  fortu¬ 
nate,  especially  at  sea,  and  also  to  restore  to  him  whatever  he 
may  have  lost.  But,”  he  continued,  smiling,  “  though  I  have 
worn  it  constantly  since  I  quitted  Greece,  it  has  not  made  me 
altogether  fortunate  at  sea,  you  perceive,  unless  I  am  to  count 
escape  from  drowning  as  a  sufficient  proof  of  its  virtue.  It 
remains  to  be  seen  whether  my  lost  chests  will  come  to  light ; 
but  to  lose  no  chance  of  such  a  result,  Messer,  I  will  pray  you 
only  to  hold  the  ring  for  a  short  space  as  pledge  for  a  small 
sum  far  beneath  its  value,  and  I  will  redeem  it  as  soon  as  I  can 
dispose  of  certain  other  gems  which  are  secured  within  my  doub¬ 
let,  or  indeed  as  soon  as  I  can  earn  something  by  any  scholarly 
employment,  if  I  may  be  so  fortunate  as  to  meet  with  such.” 

“  That  may  be  seen,  young  man,  if  you  will  come  with  me,” 
said  Cennini.  “My  brother  Pietro,  who  is  a  better  judge  of 
scholarship  than  I,  will  perhaps  be  able  to  supply  you  with  a 
task  that  may  test  your  capabilities.  Meanwhile,  take  back 
your  ring  until  I  can  hand  you  the  necessary  florins,  and,  if  it 
please  you,  come  along  with  me.” 

“Yes,  yes,”  said  Nello,  “go  with  Messer  Domenico;  you 
cannot  go  in  better  company ;  he  was  born  under  the  constel¬ 
lation  that  gives  a  man  skill,  riches,  and  integrity,  whatever 
that  constellation  may  be,  which  is  of  the  less  consequence 
because  babies  can’t  choose  their  own  horoscopes,  and,  indeed, 
if  they  could,  there  might  be  an  inconvenient  rush  of  babies 
at  particular  epochs.  Besides,  our  Phoenix,  the  incomparable 
Pico,  has  shown  that  your  horoscopes  are  all  a  nonsensical 
dream  —  which  is  the  less  troublesome  opinion.  Addio  /  hel 
giovane!  don’t  forget  to  come  back  to  me.” 

“No  fear  of  that,”  said  Tito,  beckoning  a  farewell,  as  he 
turned  round  his  bright  face  at  the  door.  “You  are  to  do  me 
a  great  service  —  that  is  the  most  positive  security  for  your 
seeing  me  again.” 

“  Say  what  thou  wilt,  Piero,”  said  Nello,  as  the  young  stran- 
ger  disappeared,  “  I  shall  never  look  at  such  an  outside  as  that 


48 


ROMOLA. 


without  taking  it  as  a  sign  of  a  lovable  nature.  Why,  thou 
wilt  say  next  that  Lionardo,  whom  thou  art  always  raving 
about,  ought  to  have  made  his  Judas  as  beautiful  as  St.  John ! 
But  thou  art  as  deaf  as  the  top  of  Mount  Morello  with  that 
accursed  tow  in  thy  ears.  Well,  well :  I  ’ll  get  a  little  more 
of  this  young  man’s  history  from  him  before  I  take  him  to 
Bardo  Bardi.” 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  BLIND  SCHOLAR  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER. 

The  Via  de’  Bardi,  a  street  noted  in  the  history  of  Florence, 
lies  in  Oltrarno,  or  that  portion  of  the  city  which  clothes  the 
southern  bank  of  the  river.  It  extends  from  the  Ponte  Vec- 
chio  to  the  Piazza  de’  Mozzi  at  the  head  of  the  Ponte  alle  Gra- 
zie ;  its  right-hand  line  of  houses  and  walls  being  backed  by 
the  rather  steep  ascent  which  in  the  fifteenth  century  was 
known  as  the  Hill  of  Bogoli,  the  famous  stone-quarry  whence 
the  city  got  its  pavement  —  of  dangerously  unstable  consist¬ 
ence  when  penetrated  by  rains ;  its  left-hand  buildings  flank¬ 
ing  the  river  and  making  on  their  northern  side  a  length  of 
quaint,  irregularly  pierced  fa9ade,  of  which  the  waters  give  a 
softened  loving  reflection  as  the  sun  begins  to  decline  towards 
the  western  heights.  But  quaint  as  these  buildings  are,  some 
of  them  seem  to  the  historical  memory  a  too  modern  substitute 
for  the  famous  houses  of  the  Bardi  family,  destroyed  by  popu¬ 
lar  rage  in  the  middle  of  the  fourteenth  century. 

They  were  a  proud  and  energetic  stock,  these  Bardi ;  con¬ 
spicuous  among  those  who  clutched  the  sword  in  the  earliest 
world-famous  quarrels  of  Florentines  with  Florentines,  when 
the  narrow  streets  were  darkened  with  the  high  towers  of  the 
nobles,  and  when  the  old  tutelar  god  Mars,  as  he  saw  the  gut¬ 
ters  reddened  with  neighbors’  blood,  might  well  have  smiled 
at  the  centuries  of  lip-service  paid  to  his  rival,  the  Baptist. 


THE  BLIND  SCHOLAR  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER.  49 


But  the  Bardi  hands  were  of  the  sort  that  not  only  clutch  the 
sword-hilt  with  vigor,  but  love  the  more  delicate  pleasure  of 
fingering  minted  metal :  they  were  matched,  too,  with  true 
Florentine  eyes,  capable  of  discerning  that  power  was  to  be 
won  by  other  means  than  by  rending  and  riving,  and  by  the 
middle  of  the  fourteenth  century  we  find  them  risen  from 
their  original  condition  of  popolani  to  be  possessors,  by  pur¬ 
chase,  of  lands  and  strongholds,  and  the  feudal  dignity  of 
Counts  of  Vernio,  disturbing  to  the  jealousy  of  their  republi¬ 
can  fellow-citizens.  These  lordly  purchases  are  explained  by 
our  seeing  the  Bardi  disastrously  signalized  only  a  few  years 
later  as  standing  in  the  very  front  of  European  commerce  — 
the  Christian  Rothschilds  of  that  time  —  undertaking  to  fur¬ 
nish  specie  for  the  wars  of  our  Edward  the  Third,  and  hav¬ 
ing  revenues  in  kind  ”  made  over  to  them ;  especially  in 
wool,  most  precious  of  freights  for  Florentine  galleys.  Their 
august  debtor  left  them  with  an  august  deficit,  and  alarmed 
Sicilian  creditors  made  a  too  sudden  demand  for  the  payment 
of  deposits,  causing  a  ruinous  shock  to  the  credit  of  the  Bardi 
and  of  associated  houses,  which  was  felt  as  a  commercial 
calamity  along  all  the  coasts  of  the  Mediterranean.  But,  like 
more  modern  bankrupts,  they  did  not,  for  all  that,  hide  their 
heads  in  humiliation  ;  on  the  contrary,  they  seem  to  have  held 
them  higher  than  ever,  and  to  have  been  among  the  most  arro¬ 
gant  of  those  grandees,  who,  under  certain  noteworthy  circum¬ 
stances,  open  to  all  who  will  read  the  honest  pages  of  Giovanni 
Villaui,  drew  upon  themselves  the  exasperation  of  the  armed 
people  in  1343.  The  Bardi,  who  had  made  themselves  fast  in 
their  street  between  the  two  bridges,  kept  these  narrow  inlets, 
like  panthers  at  bay,  against  the  oncoming  gonfalons  of  the 
people,  and  were  only  made  to  give  way  by  an  assault  from 
the  hill  behind  them.  Their  houses  by  the  river,  to  the  num¬ 
ber  of  twenty-two  {palagi  e  case  grandi),  were  sacked  and 
burned,  and  many  among  the  chief  of  those  who  bore  the 
Bardi  name  were  driven  from  the  city.  But  an  old  Florentine 
family  was  man3^-rooted,  and  we  find  the  Bardi  maintaining 
importance  and  rising  again  and  again  to  the  surface  of  Flor¬ 
entine  affairs  in  a  more  or  less  creditable  manner,  implying  an 

4 


VOL.  V. 


50 


ROMOLA. 


untold  family  history  that  would  have  included  even  more  vicis< 
situdes  and  contrasts  of  dignity  and  disgrace,  of  wealth  and 
poverty,  than  are  usually  seen  on  the  background  of  wide 
kinship.^  But  the  Bardi  never  resumed  their  proprietorship 
in  the  old  street  on  the  banks  of  the  river,  which  in  1492  had 
long  been  associated  with  other  names  of  mark,  and  especially 
with  the  Neri,  who  possessed  a  considerable  range  of  houses 
on  the  side  towards  the  hill.  In  one  of  these  Neri  houses 
there  lived,  however,  a  descendant  of  the  Bardi,  and  of  that 
very  branch  which  a  century  and  a  half  before  had  become 
Counts  of  Vernio :  a  descendant  who  had  inherited  the  old 
family  pride  and  energy,  the  old  love  of  pre-eminence,  the  old 
desire  to  leave  a  lasting  track  of  his  footsteps  on  the  fast¬ 
whirling  earth.  But  the  family  passions  lived  on  in  him  under 
altered  conditions :  this  descendant  of  the  Bardi  was  not  a 
man  swift  in  street  warfare,  or  one  who  loved  to  play  the 
signor,  fortifying  strongholds  and  asserting  the  right  to  hang 
vassals,  or  a  merchant  and  usurer  of  keen  daring,  who  de¬ 
lighted  in  the  generalship  of  wide  commercial  schemes :  he 
was  a  man  with  a  deep-veined  hand  cramped  by  much  copying 
of  manuscripts,  who  ate  sparing  dinners,  and  wore  threadbare 
clothes,  at  first  from  choice  and  at  last  from  necessity ;  who 
sat  among  his  books  and  his  marble  fragments  of  the  past,  and 
saw  them  only  by  the  light  of  those  far-off  younger  days  which 
still  shone  in  his  memory :  he  was  a  moneyless,  blind  old 
scholar  —  the  Bardo  de’  Bardi  to  whom  Nello,  the  barber,  had 
promised  to  introduce  the  young  Greek,  Tito  Melema. 

The  house  in  which  Bardo  lived  was  situated  on  the  side  of 
the  street  nearest  the  hill,  and  was  one  of  those  large  sombre 
masses  of  stone  building  pierced  by  comparatively  small  win- 

1  A  sign  that  such  contrasts  were  peculiarly  frequent  in  Florence,  is  the 
fact  that  Saint  Antonine,  Prior  of  San  Marco,  and  afterwards  archbishop,  in 
the  first  half  of  this  fifteenth  century,  founded  the  society  of  Buonuomini  di 
San  Martino  (Good  Men  of  St.  Martin)  with  the  main  object  of  succoring  the 
poi^eri  vergognosi  —  in  other  words,  paupers  of  good  family.  In  the  records  of 
the  famous  Panciatichi  family  we  find  a  certain  Girolamo  in  this  century  who 
was  reduced  to  such  a  state  of  poverty  that  he  was  obliged  to  seek  charity  for 
the  mere  means  of  sustaining  life,  though  other  members  of  his  family  were 
enormously  wealthy. 


THE  BLIND  SCHOLAE  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER.  6l 


dows,  and  surmounted  by  what  may  be  called  a  roofed  terrace 
or  loggia,  of  which  there  are  many  examples  still  to  be  seen  in 
the  venerable  city.  Grim  doors,  with  conspicuous  scrolled 
hinges,  having  high  up  on  each  side  of  them  a  small  window 
defended  by  iron  bars,  opened  on  a  groined  entrance-court, 
empty  of  everything  but  a  massive  lamp-iron  suspended  from 
the  centre  of  the  groin.  A  smaller  grim  door  on  the  left  hand 
admitted  to  the  stone  staircase  and  the  rooms  on  the  ground- 
floor.  These  last  were  used  as  a  warehouse  by  the  proprietor ; 
so  was  the  first  floor ;  and  both  were  filled  with  precious 
stores,  destined  to  be  carried,  some  perhaps  to  the  banks  of 
the  Scheldt,  some  to  the  shores  of  Africa,  some  to  the  isles 
of  the  ^gean  or  to  the  banks  of  the  Euxine.  Maso,  the  old 
serving-man,  when  he  returned  from  the  Mercato  with  the  stock 
of  cheap  vegetables,  had  to  make  his  slow  way  up  to  the  second 
story  before  he  reached  the  door  of  his  master,  Bardo,  through 
which  we  are  about  to  enter  only  a  few  mornings  after  Nello’s 
conversation  with  the  Greek. 

We  follow  Maso  across  the  antechamber  to  the  door  on  the 
left  hand,  through  which  we  pass  as  he  opens  it.  He  merely 
looks  in  and  nods,  while  a  clear  young  voice  says,  “  Ah,  you 
are  come  back,  Maso.  It  is  well.  We  have  wanted  nothing.” 

The  voice  came  from  the  farther  end  of  a  long,  spacious  room, 
surrounded  with  shelves,  on  which  books  and  antiquities  were 
arranged  in  scrupulous  order.  Here  and  there,  on  separate 
stands  in  front  of  the  shelves,  were  placed  a  beautiful  feminine 
torso ;  a  headless  statue,  with  an  uplifted  muscular  arm  wield¬ 
ing  a  bladeless  sword ;  rounded,  dimpled,  infantine  limbs  sev¬ 
ered  from  the  trunk,  inviting  the  lips  to  kiss  the  cold  marble ; 
some  well-preserved  Homan  busts  ;  and  two  or  three  vases  from 
Magna  Graecia.  A  large  table  in  the  centre  was  covered  with 
antique  bronze  lamps  and  small  vessels  in  dark  pottery.  The 
color  of  these  objects  was  chiefly  pale  or  sombre:  the  vellum 
bindings,  with  their  deep-ridged  backs,  gave  little  relief  to  the 
marble,  livid  with  long  burial ;  the  once  splendid  patch  of  carpet 
at  the  farther  end  of  the  room  had  long  been  worn  to  dimness  j 
the  dark  bronzes  wanted  sunlight  upon  them  to  bring  out  their 
tinge  of  green,  and  the  sun  was  not  yet  high  enough  to  send 


52 


KOMOLA. 


gleams  of  brightness  through  the  narrow  windows  that  looked 
on  the  Via  de’  Bardi. 

The  only  spot  of  bright  color  in  the  room  was  made  by  the 
hair  of  a  tall  maiden  of  seventeen  or  eighteen,  who  was  stand¬ 
ing  before  a  carved  leggio,  or  reading-desk,  such  as  is  often 
seen  in  the  choirs  of  Italian  churches.  The  hair  was  of  a  red¬ 
dish  gold  color,  enriched  by  an  unbroken  small  ripple,  such  as 
may  be  seen  in  the  sunset  clouds  on  grandest  autumnal  evenings. 
It  was  confined  by  a  black  fillet  above  her  small  ears,  from 
which  it  rippled  forward  again,  and  made  a  natural  veil  for  her 
neck  above  her  square-cut  gown  of  black  rascia,  or  serge.  Her 
eyes  were  bent  on  a  large  volume  placed  before  her :  one  long 
white  hand  rested  on  the  reading-desk,  and  the  other  clasped 
the  back  of  her  father’s  chair. 

The  blind  father  sat  with  head  uplifted  and  turned  a  little 
aside  towards  his  daughter,  as  if  he  were  looking  at  her.  His 
delicate  paleness,  set  off  by  the  black  velvet  cap  which  sur¬ 
mounted  his  drooping  white  hair,  made  all  the  more  percepti¬ 
ble  the  likeness  between  his  aged  features  and  those  of  the 
young  maiden,  whose  cheeks  were  also  without  any  tinge  of 
the  rose.  There  was  the  same  refinement  of  brow  and  nostril 
in  both,  counterbalanced  by  a  full  though  firm  mouth  and 
powerful  chin,  which  gave  an  expression  of  proud  tenacity 
and  latent  impetuousness  :  an  expression  carried  out  in  the 
backward  poise  of  the  girl’s  head,  and  the  grand  line  of  her 
neck  and  shoulders.  It  was  a  type  of  face  of  which  one  could 
not  venture  to  say  whether  it  would  inspire  love  or  only  that 
unwilling  admiration  which  is  mixed  with  dread :  the  question 
must  be  decided  by  the  eyes,  which  often  seem  charged  with 
a  more  direct  message  from  the  soul.  But  the  eyes  of  the 
father  had  long  been  silent,  and  the  eyes  of  the  daughter  were 
bent  on  the  Latin  pages  of  Politian’s  “  Miscellanea,”  from 
which  she  was  reading  aloud  at  the  eightieth  chapter,  to  the 
following  effect:  — 

“  There  was  a  certain  nymph  of  Thebes  named  Chariclo, 
especially  dear  to  Pallas ;  and  this  nymph  was  the  mother  of 
Teiresias.  But  once  when  in  the  heat  of  summer,  Pallas, 
in  company  with  Chariclo,  was  bathing  her  disrobed  limbs  iu 


THE  BLIND  SCHOLAR  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER.  6S 


the  Heliconian  Hippocrene,  it  happened  that  Teiresias  coming 
as  a  hunter  to  quench  his  thirst  at  the  same  fountain,  in¬ 
advertently  beheld  Minerva  unveiled,  and  immediately  became 
blind.  For  it  is  declared  in  the  Saturnian  laws,  that  he  who 
beholds  the  gods  against  their  will,  shall  atone  for  it  by  a 
heavy  penalty.  .  .  .  When  Teiresias  had  fallen  into  this  ca¬ 
lamity,  Pallas,  moved  by  the  tears  of  Chariclo,  endowed  him 
with  prophecy  and  length  of  days,  and  even  caused  his  pru¬ 
dence  and  wisdom  to  continue  after  he  had  entered  among  the 
shades,  so  that  an  oracle  spake  from  his  tomb :  and  she  gave 
him  a  staff,  wherewith,  as  by  a  guide,  he  might  walk  without 
stumbling.  .  .  .  And  hence,  Nonnus,  in  the  fifth  book  of 
the  ‘  Dionysiaca,’  introduces  Actaeon  exclaiming  that  he  calls 
Teiresias  happy,  since,  without  dying,  and  with  the  loss  of 
his  eyesight  merely,  he  had  beheld  Minerva  unveiled,  and 
thus,  though  blind,  could  forevermore  carry  her  image  in  his 
soul.” 

At  this  point  in  the  reading,  the  daughter’s  hand  slipped 
from  the  back  of  the  chair  and  met  her  father’s,  which  he  had 
that  moment  uplifted ;  but  she  had  not  looked  round,  and  was 
going  on,  though  with  a  voice  a  little  altered  by  some  sup¬ 
pressed  feeling,  to  read  the  Greek  quotation  from  Nonnus, 
when  the  old  man  said  — 

‘‘Stay,  Romola;  reach  me  my  own  copy  of  Nonnus.  It  is 
a  more  correct  copy  than  any  in  Poliziano’s  hands,  for  I  made 
emendations  in  it  which  have  not  yet  been  communicated  to 
any  man.  I  finished  it  in  1477,  when  my  sight  was  fast  failing 
me.” 

Romola  walked  to  the  farther  end  of  the  room,  with  the 
queenly  step  which  was  the  simple  action  of  her  tall,  finelj" 
wrought  frame,  without  the  slightest  conscious  adjustment  of 
herself. 

“Is  it  in  the  right  place,  Romola?”  asked  Bardo,  who  was 
perpetually  seeking  the  assurance  that  the  outward  fact  con¬ 
tinued  to  correspond  with  the  image  which  lived  to  the  minutest 
detail  in  his  mind. 

“Yes,  father;  at  the  west  end  of  the  room,  on  the  third 
shelf  from  the  bottom,  behind  the  bust  of  Hadrian,  above 


54 


ROMOLA. 


Apollonius  Rhodius  and  CallimacliuSj  and  below  Lucan  and 
Silius  Italicus.” 

As  Romola  said  this,  a  fine  ear  would  have  detected  in  her 
clear  voice  and  distinct  utterance  a  faint  suggestion  of  weari¬ 
ness  struggling  with  habitual  patience.  But  as  she  approached 
her  father  and  saw  his  arms  stretched  out  a  little  with  ner¬ 
vous  excitement  to  seize  the  volume,  her  hazel  eyes  filled  with 
pity ;  she  hastened  to  lay  the  book  on  his  lap,  and  kneeled 
down  by  him,  looking  up  at  him  as  if  she  believed  that  the 
love  in  her  face  must  surely  make  its  way  through  the  dark 
obstruction  that  shut  out  everything  else.  At  that  moment 
the  doubtful  attractiveness  of  Eomola’s  face,  in  which  pride 
and  passion  seemed  to  be  quivering  in  the  balance  with  native 
refinement  and  intelligence,  was  transfigured  to  the  most  lova¬ 
ble  womanliness  by  mingled  pity  and  affection :  it  was  evident 
that  the  deepest  fount  of  feeling  within  her  had  not  yet  wrought 
its  way  to  the  less  changeful  features,  and  only  found  its 
outlet  through  her  eyes. 

But  the  father,  unconscious  of  that  soft  radiance,  looked 
flushed  and  agitated  as  his  hand  explored  the  edges  and  back 
of  the  large  book, 

“  The  vellum  is  yellowed  in  these  thirteen  years,  Romola  ?  ” 

“Yes,  father,”  said  Romola,  gently;  “but  your  letters  at 
the  back  are  dark  and  plain  still  —  fine  Roman  letters ;  and  the 
Greek  character,”  she  continued,  laying  the  book  open  on  her 
father’s  knee,  “  is  more  beautiful  than  that  of  any  of  your 
bought  manuscripts.” 

“  Assuredly,  child,”  said  Bardo,  passing  his  finger  across 
the  page,  as  if  he  hoped  to  discriminate  line  and  margin. 
“What  hired  amanuensis  can  be  equal  to  the  scribe  who  loves 
the  words  that  grow  under  his  hand,  and  to  whom  an  error  or 
indistinctness  in  the  text  is  more  painful  than  a  sudden  dark¬ 
ness  or  obstacle  across  his  path  ?  And  even  these  mechanical 
printers  who  threaten  to  make  learning  a  base  and  vulgar 
thing  —  even  they  must  depend  on  the  manuscript  over  which 
we  scholars  have  bent  with  that  insight  into  the  poet’s  mean¬ 
ing  which  is  closely  akin  to  the  mens  divinior  of  the  poet 
himself — unless  they  would  flood  the  world  with  grammatical 


THE  BLIND  SCHOLAR  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER.  66 


falsities  aL\d  inexidicable  anomalies  that  would  turn  the  very 
fountain  of  Parnassus  into  a  deluge  of  poisonous  mud.  But 
find  the  pasi'age  in  the  fifth  book  to  which  Poliziano  refers. 
I  know  it  very  well.” 

Seating  herself  on  a  low  stool,  close  to  her  father’s  knee, 
Eomola  took  the  book  on  her  lap  and  read  the  four  verses 
containing  the  exclamation  of  Actseon. 

“It  is  true,  Romola,”  said  Bardo,  when  she  had  finished : 
“it  is  a  true  conception  of  the  poet ;  for  what  is  that  grosser, 
narrower  light  by  which  men  behold  merely  the  petty  scene 
around  them,  compared  with  that  far-stretching,  lasting  light 
which  spreads  over  centuries  of  thought,  and  over  the  life  of 
nations,  and  makes  clear  to  us  the  minds  of  the  immortals 
who  have  reaped  the  great  harvest  and  left  us  to  glean  in 
their  furrows  ?  For  me.  Bomola,  even  when  I  could  see,  it 
was  with  the  great  dead  that  I  lived ;  while  the  living  often 
seemed  to  me  mere  spectres  —  shadows  dispossessed  of  true 
feeling  and  intelligence ;  and  unlike  those  Lamise,  to  whom 
Poliziano,  with  that  superficial  ingenuity  which  I  do  not  deny 
to  him,  compares  our  inquisitive  Florentines,  because  they  put 
on  their  eyes  when  they  went  abroad,  and  took  them  off  when 
they  got  home  again,  I  have  returned  from  the  converse  of  the 
streets  .as  from  a  forgotten  dream,  and  have  sat  down  among 
my  books,  saying  with  Petrarca,  the  modern  who  is  least  un¬ 
worthy  to  be  named  after  the  ancients,  ‘  Libri  medullitus  de- 
lectant,  colloquuntur,  consulunt,  et  viva  quadam  nobis  atque 
arguta  familiaritate  junguntur.’  ” 

“And  in  one  thing  you  are  happier  than  your  favorite  Pe¬ 
trarca,  father,”  said  Bomola,  affectionately  humoring  the  old 
man’s  disposition  to  dilate  in  this  way ;  “  for  he  used  to  look 
at  his  copy  of  Homer  and  think  sadly  that  the  Greek  was  a 
dead  letter  to  him  :  so  far,  he  had  the  inward  blindness  that 
you  feel  is  worse  than  your  outward  blindness.” 

“  True,  child ;  for  I  carry  within  me  the  fruits  of  that  fervid 
study  which  I  gave  to  the  Greek  tongue  under  the  teaching  of 
the  younger  Crisolora,  and  Filelfo,  and  Argiropulo ;  though 
that  great  work  in  which  I  had  desired  to  gather,  as  into  a 
firm  web,  all  the  threads  that  my  research  had  laboriously  dis- 


56 


ftOMOLA. 


entangled,  and  which  would  have  been  the  vintage  of  my  life, 
was  cut  off  by  the  failure  of  my  sight  and  my  want  of  a  fitting 
coadjutor.  For  the  sustained  zeal  and  unconquerable  patience 
demanded  from  those  who  would  tread  the  unbeaten  paths 
of  knowledge  are  still  less  reconcilable  with  the  wandering, 
vagrant  propensity  of  the  feminine  mind  than  with  the  feeble 
powers  of  the  feminine  body.” 

“Father,”  said  Eomola,  with  a  sudden  flush  and  in  an  in¬ 
jured  tone,  “  I  read  anything  you  wish  me  to  read ;  and  I  will 
look  out  any  passages  for  you,  and  make  whatever  notes  you 
want.” 

Bardo  shook  his  head,  and  smiled  with  a  bitter  sort  of  pity. 
“As  well  try  to  be  a  pentathlos  and  perform  all  the  five  feats 
of  the  palaestra  with  the  limbs  of  a  nymph.  Have  I  forgotten 
thy  fainting  in  the  mere  search  for  the  references  I  needed  to 
explain  a  single  passage  of  Callimachus  ?  ” 

“  But,  father,  it  was  the  weight  of  the  books,  and  Maso  can 
help  me  ;  it  was  not  want  of  attention  and  patience.” 

Bardo  shook  his  head  again.  “  It  is  not  mere  bodily  or¬ 
gans  that  I  want :  it  is  the  sharp  edge  of  a  young  mind  to 
pierce  the  way  for  my  somewhat  blunted  faculties.  For  blind¬ 
ness  acts  like  a  dam,  sending  the  streams  of  thought  backward 
along  the  already-travelled  channels  and  hindering  the  course 
onward.  If  my  son  had  not  forsaken  me,  deluded  by  debasing 
fanatical  dreams,  worthy  only  of  an  energumen  whose  dwell¬ 
ing  is  among  tombs,  I  might  have  gone  on  and  seen  my  path 
broadening  to  the  end  of  my  life ;  for  he  was  a  youth  of  great 
promise.  .  .  .  But  it  has  closed  in  now,”  the  old  man  con¬ 
tinued,  after  a  short  pause  ;  “  it  has  closed  in  now ;  —  all  but 
the  narrow  track  he  has  left  me  to  tread  —  alone,  in  my 
blindness.” 

Eomola  started  from  her  seat,  and  carried  away  the  large 
volume  to  its  place  again,  stung  too  acutely  by  her  father’s  last 
words  to  remain  motionless  as  well  as  silent ;  and  when  she 
turned  away  from  the  shelf  again,  she  remained  standing  at 
some  distance  from  him,  stretching  her  arms  downward  and 
clasping  her  fingers  tightly  as  she  looked  with  a  sad  dreariness 
in  her  young  face  at  the  lifeless  objects  around  her  —  the 


THE  BLIND  SCHOLAR  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER.  57 


parchment  backs,  the  unchanging  mutilated  marble,  the  bits 
of  obsolete  bronze  and  clay. 

Bardo,  though  usually  susceptible  to  Romola’s  movements 
and  eager  to  trace  them,  was  now  too  entirely  preoccupied  by 
the  pain  of  rankling  memories  to  notice  her  departure  from 
his  side. 

‘‘Yes,”  he  went  on,  “with  my  son  to  aid  me,  I  might  have 
had  my  due  share  in  the  triumphs  of  this  century ;  the  names 
of  the  Bardi,  father  and  son,  might  have  been  held  reverently 
on  the  lips  of  scholars  in  the  ages  to  come  ;  not  on  account  of 
frivolous  verses  or  philosophical  treatises,  which  are  superfluous 
and  presumptuous  attempts  to  imitate  the  inimitable,  such  as 
allure  vain  men  like  Panhormita,  and  from  which  even  the  ad¬ 
mirable  Poggio  did  not  keep  himself  sufficiently  free  ;  but  be¬ 
cause  we  should  have  given  a  lamp  whereby  men  might  have 
studied  the  supreme  productions  of  the  past.  For  why  is  a 
young  man  like  Poliziano  (who  was  not  yet  born  when  I  was 
already  held  worthy  to  maintain  a  discussion  with  Thomas  of 
Sarzana)  to  have  a  glorious  memory  as  a  commentator  on  the 
Pandects  —  why  is  Ficino,  whose  Latin  is  an  offence  to  me, 
and  who  wanders  purblind  among  the  superstitious  fancies 
that  marked  the  decline  at  once  of  art,  literature,  and  phi¬ 
losophy,  to  descend  to  posterity  as  the  very  high  priest  of 
Platonism,  while  I,  who  am  more  than  their  equal,  have  not 
effected  anything  but  scattered  work,  which  will  be  appro¬ 
priated  by  other  men  ?  Why  ?  but  because  my  son,  whom 
I  had  brought  up  to  replenish  my  ripe  learning  with  young 
enterprise,  left  me  and  all  liberal  pursuits  that  he  might 
lash  himself  and  howl  at  midnight  with  besotted  friars  — 
that  he  might  go  wandering  on  pilgrimages  befitting  men 
who  know  of  no  past  older  than  the  missal  and  the  cruci¬ 
fix  ?  ~—  left  me  when  the  night  was  already  beginning  to  faU 
on  me  ?  ” 

In  these  last  words  the  old  man’s  voice,  which  had  risen 
high  in  indignant  protest,  fell  into  a  tone  of  reproach  so  trem¬ 
ulous  and  plaintive  that  Romola,  turning  her  eyes  again 
towards  the  blind  aged  face,  felt  her  heart  swell  with  forgiving 
pity.  She  seated  herself  by  her  father  again,  and  placed  her 


58 


ROMOLA. 


hand  on  his  knee  —  too  proud  to  obtrude  consolation  in  words 
that  might  seem  like  a  vindication  of  her  own  value,  yet 
wishing  to  comfort  him  by  some  sign  of  her  presence. 

“Yes,  Roniola,”  said  Bardo,  automatically  letting  his  left 
hand,  with  its  massive  prophylactic  rings,  fall  a  little  too 
heavily  on  the  delicate  blue-veined  back  of  the  girl’s  right,  so 
that  she  bit  her  lip  to  prevent  herself  from  starting.  “If 
even  Florence  only  is  to  remember  me,  it  can  but  be  on  the 
same  ground  that  it  will  remember  Niccolo  Niccoli — because 
I  forsook  the  vulgar  pursuit  of  wealth  in  commerce  that  I 
might  devote  myself  to  collecting  the  precious  remains  of 
ancient  art  and  wisdom,  and  leave  them,  after  the  example 
of  the  munificent  Romans,  for  an  everlasting  possession  to  my 
fellow-citizens.  But  why  do  I  say  Florence  only  ?  If  Flor- 
vnce  remembers  me,  will  not  the  world  remember  me  ?  .  .  . 
Yet,”  added  Bardo,  after  a  short  pause,  his  voice  falling  again 
into  a  saddened  key,  “  Lorenzo’s  untimely  death  has  raised  a 
new  difiiculty.  I  had  his  promise  —  I  should  have  had  his 
bond  —  that  my  collection  should  always  bear  my  name  and 
should  never  be  sold,  though  the  harpies  might  clutch  every¬ 
thing  else  ;  but  there  is  enough  for  them  —  there  is  more  than 
enough  —  and  for  thee,  too,  Romola,  there  will  be  enough. 
Besides,  thou  wilt  marry  ;  Bernardo  reproaches  me  that  I  do 
not  seek  a  fitting  parentado  for  thee,  and  we  will  delay  no 
longer,  we  will  think  about  it.” 

“No,  no,  father  ;  what  could  you  do  ?  besides,  it  is  useless: 
wait  till  some  one  seeks  me,”  said  Romola,  hastily. 

“  Nay,  my  child,  that  is  not  the  paternal  duty.  It  was  not 
so  held  by  the  ancients,  and  in  this  respect  Florentines  have 
not  degenerated  from  their  ancestral  customs.” 

“  But  I  will  study  diligently,”  said  Romola,  her  eyes  dilat¬ 
ing  with  anxiety.  “I  will  become  as  learned  as  Cassandra 
Fedele  :  I  will  try  and  be  as  useful  to  you  as  if  I  had  been  a 
boy,  and  then  perhaps  some  great  scholar  will  want  to  marry 
me,  and  will  not  mind  about  a  dowry  ;  and  he  will  like  to 
come  and  live  with  you,  and  he  will  be  to  you  in  place  of 
my  brother  .  .  .  and  you  will  not  be  sorry  that  I  was  a 
daughter.” 


•  THE  BLIND  SCHOLAR  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER.  69 


There  was  a  rising  sob  in  Eomola’s  voice  as  she  said  the 
last  words,  which  touched  the  fatherly  fibre  in  Bardo.  He 
stretched  his  hand  upward  a  little  in  search  of  her  golden  hair, 
and  as  she  placed  her  head  under  his  hand,  he  gently  stroked 
it,  leaning  towards  her  as  if  his  eyes  discerned  some  glimmer 
there. 

“  Hay,  Bomola  mia,  I  said  not  so ;  if  I  have  pronounced 
an  anathema  on  a  degenerate  and  ungrateful  son,  I  said  not 
that  I  could  wish  thee  other  than  the  sweet  daughter  thou 
hast  been  to  me.  For  what  son  could  have  tended  me  so 
gently  in  the  frequent  sickness  I  have  had  of  late  ?  And  even 
in  learning  thou  art  not,  according  to  thy  measure,  contempti¬ 
ble.  Something  perhaps  were  to  be  wished  in  thy  capacity  of 
attention  and  memory,  not  incompatible  even  with  the  femi¬ 
nine  mind.  But  as  Calcoudila  bore  testimony,  when  ho  aided 
me  to  teach  thee,  thou  hast  a  ready  apprehension,  and  even  a 
wide-glancing  intelligence.  And  thou  hast  a  man’s  nobility  of 
soul :  thou  hast  never  fretted  me  with  thy  petty  desires  as  thy 
mother  did.  It  is  true,  I  have  been  careful  to  keep  thee  aloof 
from  the  debasing  influence  of  thy  own  sex,  with  their  sparrow¬ 
like  frivolity  and  their  enslaving  superstition,  except,  indeed, 
from  that  of  our  cousin  Bri^ida,  who  may  well  serve  as  a 
.scarecrow  and  a  warning.  And  though — since  I  agree  with 
the  divine  Petrarca,  when  he  declares,  quoting  the  ‘  Aulularia’ 
of  Plautus,  who  again  was  indebted  for  the  truth  to  the 
supreme  Greek  intellect,  ‘  Optimam  foeminam  nullam  esse,  alia 
licet  alia  pejor  sit’  —  I  cannot  boast  that  thou  art  entirely 
lifted  out  of  that  lower  category  to  which  Hature  assigned 
thee,  nor  even  that  in  erudition  thou  art  on  a  par  with  the 
more  learned  women  of  this  age  ;  thou  art,  nevertheless  —  yes, 
Komola  mia,”  said  the  old  man,  his  pedantry  again  melting 
into  tenderness,  “  thou  art  my  sweet  daughter,  and  thy  voice 
is  as  the  lower  notes  of  the  flute,  ‘  dulcis,  durabilis,  clara,  pura, 
secans  aera  et  auribus  sedens,’  according  to  the  choice  words 
of  Quintilian  ;  and  Bernardo  tells  me  thou  art  fair,  and  thy 
hair  is  like  the  brightness  of  the  morning,  and  indeed  it  seems 
to  me  that  I  discern  some  radiance  from  thee.  Ah !  I  know 
how  all  else  looks  in  this  room,  but  thy  form  I  only  guess  at 


60 


ROMOLA. 


Thou  art  no  longer  the  little  woman  six  years  old,  that  faded 
for  me  into  darkness  ;  thou  art  tall,  and  thy  arm  is  but  little 
below  mine.  Let  us  walk  together.” 

The  old  man  rose,  and  Romola,  soothed  by  these  beams  of 
tenderness,  looked  happy  again  as  she  drew  his  arm  within 
hers,  and  placed  in  his  right  hand  the  stick  which  rested  at 
the  side  of  his  chair.  While  Bardo  had  been  sitting,  he  had 
seemed  hardly  more  than  sixty  :  his  face,  though  pale,  had  that 
refined  texture  in  which  wrinkles  and  lines  are  never  deep ; 
but  now  that  he  began  to  walk  he  looked  as  old  as  he  really 
was  —  rather  more  than  seventy  ;  for  his  tall  spare  frame  had 
the  student’s  stoop  of  the  shoulders,  and  he  stepped  with  the 
undecided  gait  of  the  blind. 

“  No,  Romola,”  he  said,  pausing  against  the  bust  of  Hadrian, 
and  passing  his  stick  from  the  right  to  the  left  that  he  might 
explore  the  familiar  outline  with  a  “seeing  hand.”  “There 
will  be  nothing  else  to  preserve  my  memory  and  carry  down 
my  name  as  a  member  of  the  great  republic  of  letters  —  noth¬ 
ing  but  my  library  and  my  collection  of  antiquities.  And  they 
are  choice,”  continued  Bardo,  pressing  the  bust  and  speaking 
in  a  tone  of  insistence.  “  The  collections  of  Niccolo,  I  know, 
were  larger ;  but  take  any  collection  which  is  the  work  of  a 
single  man  —  that  of  the  great  Boccaccio  even  —  mine  will 
surpass  it.  That  of  Poggio  was  contemptible  compared  with 
mine.  It  will  be  a  great  gift  to  unborn  scholars.  And  there 
is  nothing  else.  For  even  if  I  were  to  yield  to  the  wish  of 
Aldo  Manuzio  when  he  sets  up  his  press  at  Venice,  and  give 
him  the  aid  of  my  annotated  manuscripts,  I  know  well  what 
would  be  the  result :  some  other  scholar’s  name  would  stand 
on  the  title-page  of  the  edition  —  some  scholar  who  would 
have  fed  on  my  honey,  and  then  declared  in  his  preface  that 
he  had  gathered  it  all  himself  fresh  from  Hymettus.  Else, 
why  have  I  refused  the  loan  of  many  an  annotated  codex  ?  why 
have  I  refused  to  make  public  any  of  my  translations  ?  why  ? 
but  because  scholarship  is  a  system  of  licensed  robbery,  and 
your  man  in  scarlet  and  furred  robe  who  sits  in  judgment  on 
thieves,  is  himself  a  thief  of  the  thoughts  and  the  fame  that 
belong  to  his  fellows.  But  against  that  robbery  Bardo  de’ 


THE  BLIND  SCHOLAR  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER.  61 


Bardi  shall  struggle  —  though  blind  and  forsaken,  he  shall 
struggle.  I  too  have  a  right  to  be  remembered  —  as  great  a 
right  as  Pontanus  or  Merula,  whose  names  will  be  foremost 
on  the  lips  of  posterity,  because  they  sought  patronage  and 
found  it ;  because  they  had  tongues  that  could  flatter,  and 
blood  that  was  used  to  be  nourished  from  the  client’s  basket. 
1  have  a  right  to  be  remembered.” 

The  old  man’s  voice  had  become  at  once  loud  and  tremulous, 
and  a  pink  flush  overspread  his  proud,  delicately  cut  features, 
while  the  habitually  raised  attitude  of  his  head  gave  the  idea 
that  behind  the  curtain  of  his  blindness  he  saw  some  imaginary 
high  tribunal  to  which  he  was  appealing  against  the  injustice 
of  Fame. 

Romola  was  moved  with  sympathetic  indignation,  for  in  her 
nature  too  there  lay  the  same  large  claims,  and  the  same  spirit 
of  struggle  against  their  denial.  She  tried  to  calm  her  father 
by  a  still  prouder  word  than  his. 

“Nevertheless,  father,  it  is  a  great  gift  of  the  gods  to  be 
born  with  a  hatred  and  contempt  of  all  injustice  and  meanness. 
Yours  is  a  higher  lot,  never  to  have  lied  and  truckled,  than  to 
have  shared  honors  won  by  dishonor.  There  is  strength  in 
scorn,  as  there  was  in  the  martial  fury  by  which  men  became 
insensible  to  wounds.” 

“  It  is  well  said,  Romola.  It  is  a  Promethean  word  thou 
hast  uttered,”  answered  Bardo,  after  a  little  interval,  in  which 
he  had  begun  to  lean  on  his  stick  again,  and  to  walk  on.  “  And 
I  indeed  am  not  to  be  pierced  by  the  shafts  of  Fortune.  My 
armor  is  the  ces  triplex  of  a  clear  conscience,  and  a  mind  nour¬ 
ished  by  the  precepts  of  philosophy.  ‘  For  men,’  says  Epicte¬ 
tus,  ‘  are  disturbed  not  by  things  themselves,  but  by  their 
opinions  or  thoughts  concerning  those  things.’  And  again, 
‘whosoever  will  be  free,  let  him  not  desire  or  dread  that  which 
it  is  in'  the  power  of  others  either  to  deny  or  inflict :  other¬ 
wise,  he  is  a  slave.’  And  of  all  such  gifts  as  are  dependent 
on  the  caprice  of  fortune  or  of  men,  I  have  long  ago  learned 
to  say,  with  Horace  —  who,  however,  is  too  wavering  in  his 
philosophy,  vacillating  between  the  ])recepts  of  Zeno  and  the 
less  worthy  maxims  of  Epicurus,  and  attempting,  as  we  say, 


62 


ROMOLA. 


^  duabus  sellis  sedere  ’  —  concerning  such  accidents,  I  say,  with 
the  pregnant  brevity  of  the  poet  — 

‘  Sunt  ijui  non  habeant,  est  qui  non  curat  habere.’ 

He  is  referring  to  gems,  and  purple,  and  other  insignia  of 
wealth ;  but  I  may  apply  his  words  not  less  justly  to  the 
tributes  men  pay  us  with  their  lips  and  their  pens,  which  are 
also  m^itters  of  purchase,  and  often  with  base  coin.  Yes, 
‘  inanis '  —  hollow,  empty  —  is  the  epithet  justly  bestowed  on 
Fame.” 

Thej  made  the  tour  of  the  room  in  silence  after  this ;  but 
Bardo’j  lip-born  maxims  were  as  powerless  over  the  passion 
which  had  been  moving  him,  as  if  they  had  been  written  on 
parchment  and  hung  round  his  neck  in  a  sealed  bag ;  and  he 
presently  broke  forth  again  in  a  new  tone  of  insistence. 

“  Inanis  ?  yes,  if  it  is  a  lying  fame  ;  but  not  if  it  is  the  just 
meed  of  labor  and  a  great  purpose.  I  claim  my  right :  it  is 
not  fair  that  the  work  of  my  brain  and  my  hands  should  not 
be  a  monument  to  me  —  it  is  not  just  that  my  labor  should 
bear  the  name  of  another  man.  It  is  but  little  to  ask,”  the 
old  man  went  on,  bitterly,  “  that  my  name  should  be  over  the 
door  —  that  men  should  own  themselves  debtors  to  the  Bardi 
Library  in  Florence.  They  will  speak  coldly  of  me,  perhaps : 
‘a  diligent  collector  and  transcriber,’  they  will  say,  ‘and  also 
of  some  critical  ingenuity,  but  one  who  could  hardly  be  con¬ 
spicuous  in  an  age  so  fruitful  in  illustrious  scholars.  Yet  he 
merits  our  pity,  for  in  the  latter  years  of  his  life  he  was  blind, 
and  his  only  son,  to  whose  education  he  had  devoted  his  best 
years  —  ’  Nevertheless  my  name  will  be  remembered,  and 
men  will  honor  me :  not  with  the  breath  of  flattery,  purchased 
by  mean  bribes,  but  because  I  have  labored,  and  because  my 
labors  will  remain.  Debts  !  I  know  there  are  debts  ;  and  there 
is  thy  dowry,  Bomola,  to  be  paid.  But  there  must  be  enough 
—  or,  at  least,  there  can  lack  but  a  small  sum,  such  as  the 
Signoria  might  well  provide.  And  if  Lorenzo  had  not  died, 
all  would  have  been  secured  and  settled.  But  now  —  ” 

At  this  moment  Maso  opened  the  door,  and  advancing  to 
his  master,  announced  that  Nello,  the  barber,  had  desired  him 


DAWNING  HOPES.  63 

to  say  that  he  was  come  with  the  Greek  scholar  whom  he  had 
asked  leave  to  introduce. 

“  It  is  well,”  said  the  old  man.  “  Bring  them  in.” 

Bardo,  conscious  that  he  looked  more  dependent  when  he 
was  walking,  liked  always  to  be  seated  in  the  presence  of 
strangers,  and  Romola,  without  needing  to  be  told,  conducted 
him  to  his  chair.  She  was  standing  by  him  at  her  full  height, 
in  quiet  majestic  self-possession,  when  the  visitors  entered ; 
and  the  most  penetrating  observer  would  hardly  have  divined 
that  this  proud  pale  face,  at  the  slightest  touch  on  the  fibres 
of  affection  or  pity,  could  become  passionate  with  tenderness, 
or  that  this  woman,  who  imposed  a  certain  awe  on  those  who 
approached  her,  was  in  a  state  of  girlish  simplicity  and  igno¬ 
rance  concerning  the  world  outside  her  father’s  books. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

DAWNING  HOPES. 

When  Maso  opened  the  door  again,  and  ushered  in  the  two 
visitors,  Hello,  first  making  a  deep  reverence  to  Eomola,  gently 
pushed  Tito  before  him,  and  advanced  with  him  towards  her 
father. 

“  Messer  Bardo,”  he  said,  in  a  more  measured  and  respect 
ful  tone  than  was  usual  with  him,  “  I  have  the  honor  of  pre¬ 
senting  to  you  the  Greek  scholar,  who  has  been  eager  to  have 
speech  of  you,  not  less  from  the  report  I  have  made  to  him  of 
your  learning  and  your  priceless  collections,  than  because  of 
the  furtherance  your  patronage  may  give  him  under  the  tran¬ 
sient  need  to  which  he  has  been  reduced  by  shipwreck.  His 
name  is  Tito  Melema,  at  your  service.” 

Romola’s  astonishment  could  hardly  have  been  greater  if 
the  stranger  had  worn  a  panther-skin  and  carried  a  thyrsus  , 
for  the  cunning  barber  had  said  nothing  of  the  Greek’s  age  or 
appearance ;  and  among  her  father’s  scholarly  visitors,  she  had 


ROMOLA. 


«4 

hardly  ever  seen  any  but  middle-aged  or  gray-headed  men. 
There  was  only  one  masculine  face,  at  once  youthful  and 
beautiful,  the  image  of  which  remained  deeply  impressed  on 
her  mind :  it  was  that  of  her  brother,  who  long  years  ago  had 
taken  her  on  his  knee,  kissed  her,  and  never  come  back  again : 
a  fair  face,  with  sunny  hair,  like  her  own.  But  the  habitual 
attitude  of  her  mind  towards  strangers — a  proud  self-depend¬ 
ence  and  determination  to  ask  for  nothing  even  by  a  smile  — 
confirmed  in  her  by  her  father’s  complaints  against  the  world’s 
injustice,  was  like  a  snowy  embankment  hemming  in  the  rush 
of  admiring  surprise.  Tito’s  bright  face  showed  its  rich-tinted 
beauty  without  any  rivalry  of  color  above  his  black  sajo  or 
tunic  reaching  to  the  knees.  It  seemed  like  a  wreath  of  spring, 
dropped  suddenly  in  Eomola’s  young  but  wintry  life,  which 
had  inherited  nothing  but  memories  —  memories  of  a  dead 
mother,  of  a  lost  brother,  of  a  blind  father’s  happier  time  — 
memories  of  far-off  light,  love,  and  beauty,  that  lay  embedded 
in  dark  mines  of  books,  and  could  hardly  give  out  their  bright¬ 
ness  again  until  they  were  kindled  for  her  by  the  torch  of  some 
known  joy.  Nevertheless,  she  returned  Tito’s  bow,  made  to 
her  on  entering,  with  the  same  pale  proud  face  as  ever;  but, 
as  he  approached,  the  snow  melted,  and  when  he  ventured  to 
look  towards  her  again,  while  Nello  was  speaking,  a  pink  flush 
overspread  her  face,  to  vanish  again  almost  immediately,  as  if 
her  imperious  will  had  recalled  it.  Tito’s  glance,  on  the  con¬ 
trary,  had  that  gentle,  beseeching  admiration  in  it  which  is  the 
most  propitiating  of  appeals  to  a  proud,  shy  woman,  and  is 
perhaps  the  only  atonement  a  man  can  make  for  being  too 
handsome.  The  finished  fascination  of  his  air  came  chiefly 
from  the  absence  of  demand  and  assumption.  It  was  that  of 
a  fleet,  soft-coated,  dark-eyed  animal  that  delights  you  by  not 
bounding  away  in  indifference  from  you,  and  unexpectedly  pil¬ 
lows  its  chin  on  your  palm,  and  looks  up  at  you  desiring  to  be 
stroked  —  as  if  it  loved  you. 

“  Messere,  I  give  you  welcome,”  said  Bardo,  with  some  con¬ 
descension  ;  “  misfortune  wedded  to  learning,  and  especially 
to  Greek  learning,  is  a  letter  of  credit  that  should  win  the  ear 
of  every  instructed  Florentine;  for,  as  you  are  doubtless  aware, 


DAWNING  HOPES. 


66 


gince  the  period  when  your  countryman,  Manuelo  Crisolora, 
diffused  the  light  of  his  teaching  in  the  chief  cities  of  Italy, 
now  nearly  a  century  ago,  no  man  is  held  worthy  of  the  name 
of  scholar  who  has  acquired  merely  the  transplanted  and  de¬ 
rivative  literature  of  the  Latins ;  -rather,  such  inert  students 
are  stigmatized  as  opici  or  barbarians  according  to  the  phrase 
of  the  Eomans  themselves,  who  frankly  replenished  their  urns 
at  the  fountain-head.  I  am,  as  you  perceive,  and  as  Nello  has 
doubtless  forewarned  you,  totally  blind  :  a  calamity  to  which 
we  Florentines  are  held  especially  liable,  whether  owing  to  the 
cold  winds  which  rush  upon  us  in  spring  from  the  passes  of 
the  Apennines,  or  to  that  sudden  transition  from  the  cool 
gloom  of  our  houses  to  the  dazzling  brightness  of  our  summer 
sun,  by  which  the  lippi  are  said  to  have  been  made  so  numer¬ 
ous  among  the  ancient  Eomans ;  or,  in  fine,  to  some  occult 
cause  which  eludes  our  superficial  surmises.  But  I  pray  you 
be  seated :  Nello,  my  friend,  be  seated.” 

Bardo  paused  until  his  fine  ear  had  assured  him  that  the 
visitors  were  seating  themselves,  and  that  Eomola  was  taking 
her  usual  chair  at  his  right  hand.  Then  he  said  — 

“  From  what  part  of  Greece  do  you  come,  Messere  ?  I  had 
thought  that  your  unhappy  country  had  been  almost  exhausted 
of  those  sons  who  could  cherish  in  their  minds  any  image  of 
her  original  glory,  though  indeed  the  barbarous  Sultans  have 
of  late  shown  themselves  not  indisposed  to  ingraft  on  their 
■wild  stock  the  precious  vine  which  their  own  fierce  bands  have 
hewn  down  and  trampled  under  foot.  From  what  part  of 
Greece  do  you  come  ?  ” 

“I  sailed  last  from  Nauplia,”  said  Tito ;  “but  I  have  resided 
both  at  Constantinople  and  Thessalonica,  and  have  travelled 
in  various  parts  little  visited  by  Western  Christians  since  the 
triumph  of  the  Turkish  arms.  I  should  tell  you,  however, 
Messere,  that  I  was  not  born  in  Greece,  but  at  Bari.  I  spent 
the  first  sixteen  years  of  my  life  in  Southern  Italy  and 
Sicily.” 

While  Tito  was  speaking,  some  emotion  passed,  like  a  breath 
on  the  waters,  across  Bardo’s  delicate  features ;  he  leaned  for¬ 
ward,  put  out  his  right  hand  towards  Eomola,  and  turned  hia 

VOL.  V  '  6 


66 


ROMOLA. 


head  as  if  about  to  speak  to  her  ;  but  then,  correcting  himself, 
turned  away  again,  and  said,  in  a  subdued  voice  — 

Excuse  me  ;  is  it  not  true  —  you  are  young  ?  ” 

“  I  am  three-and-tweuty,”  said  Tito. 

“  Ah,”  said  Bardo,  still  in  a  tone  of  subdued  excitement, 
“and  you  had,  doubtless,  a  father  who  cared  for  your  early 
instruction  —  who,  perhaps,  was  himself  a  scholar  ?  ” 

There  was  a  slight  pause  before  Tito’s  answer  came  to  the 
ear  of  Bardo ;  but  for  Roniola  and  Nello  it  began  with  a 
slight  shock  that  seemed  to  pass  through  him,  and  cause  a 
momentary  quivering  of  the  lip ;  doubtless  at  the  revival  of 
a  supremely  painful  remembrance. 

“  Yes,”  he  replied  ;  “  at  least  a  father  by  adoption.  He  was 
a  Neapolitan,  and  of  accomplished  scholarship,  both  Latin  and 
Greek.  But,”  added  Tito,  after  another  slight  pause,  “he  is 
lost  to  me  —  was  lost  on  a  voyage  he  too  rashly  undertook  to 
Delos.” 

Bardo  sank  backward  again,  too  delicate  to  ask  another 
question  that  might  probe  a  sorrow  which  he  divined  to  be 
recent.  Bomola,  who  knew  well  what  were  the  fibres  that 
Tito’s  voice  had  stirred  in  her  father,  felt  that  this  new  ac¬ 
quaintance  had  with  wonderful  suddenness  got  within  the  barrier 
that  lay  between  them  and  the  alien  world.  Nello,  thinking 
that  the  evident  check  given  to  the  conversation  offered  a  grace¬ 
ful  opportunity  for  relieving  himself  from  silence,  said  — 

“  In  truth,  it  is  as  clear  as  Venetian  glass  that  this  line  young 
man  has  had  the  best  training ;  for  the  two  Cennini  have  set  him 
to  work  at  their  Greek  sheets  already,  and  it  seems  to  me  they 
are  not  men  to  begin  cutting  before  they  have  felt  the  edge  of 
their  tools ;  they  tested  him  well  beforehand,  we  may  be  sure, 
and  if  there  are  two  things  not  to  be  hidden  —  love  and  a 
cough  —  I  say  there  is  a  third,  and  that  is  ignorance,  when  once 
a  man  is  obliged  to  do  something  besides  wagging  his  head. 
T’he  tonsor  inequalis  is  inevitably  betrayed  when  he  takes  the 
shears  in  his  hand ;  is  it  not  true,  Messer  Bardo  ?  I  speak 
after  the  fashion  of  a  barber,  but,  as  Luigi  Pulci  says  — 

‘  Perdonimi  s’io  fallo :  chi  m’ascolta 
Latenda  il  mio  volgar  col  suo  latino.’  ” 


DAWNING  HOPES. 


67 


“Nay,  my  good  Nello,”  said  Bardo,  with  an  air  of  friendly 
severity,  “  you  are  not  altogether  illiterate,  and  might  doubt¬ 
less  have  made  a  more  respectable  progress  in  learning  if  you 
had  abstained  somewhat  from  the  cicalata  and  gossip  of  the 
street-corner,  to  which  our  Florentines  are  excessively  ad¬ 
dicted  ;  but  still  more  if  you  had  not  clogged  your  memory 
with  those  frivolous  productions  of  which  Luigi  Pulci  has  fui-- 
uished  the  most  peccant  exemplar  —  a  compendium  of  extrava¬ 
gances  and  incongruities  the  farthest  removed  from  the  models 
of  a  pure  age,  and  resembling  rather  the  grylli,  or  conceits  of  a 
period  when  mystic  meaning  was  held  a  warrant  for  monstros¬ 
ity  of  form ;  with  this  difference,  that  while  the  monstrosity 
is  retained,  the  mystic  meaning  is  absent ;  in  contemptible 
contrast  with  the  great  poem  of  Virgil,  who,  as  I  long  held 
with  Filelfo,  before  Landino  had  taken  upon  him  to  expound 
the  same  opinion,  embodied  the  deepest  lessons  of  philosophy 
in  a  graceful  and  well-knit  fable.  And  I  cannot  but  regard 
the  multiplication  of  these  babbling,  lawless  productions,  al¬ 
beit  countenanced  by  the  patronage,  and  in  some  degree  the 
example  of  Lorenzo  himself,  otherwise  a  friend  to  true  learn¬ 
ing,  as  a  sign  that  the  glorious  hopes  of  this  century  are  to  be 
quenched  in  gloom ;  nay,  that  they  have  been  the  delusive 
prologue  to  an  age  worse  than  that  of  iron  —  the  age  of  tinsel 
and  gossamer,  in  which  no  thought  has  substance  enough  to 
be  moulded  into  consistent  and  lasting  form.” 

“  Once  more,  pardon,”  said  Nello,  opening  his  palms  out¬ 
wards,  and  shrugging  his  shoulders  ;  “  I  find  myself  knowing  so 
many  things  in  good  Tuscan  before  I  have  time  to  think  of  the 
Latin  for  them ;  and  Messer  Luigi’s  rhymes  are  always  slip¬ 
ping  off  the  lips  of  my  customers  :  —  that  is  what  corrupts  me. 
And,  indeed,  talking  of  customers,  I  have  left  my  shop  and 
my  reputation  too  long  in  the  custody  of  my  slow  Sandro,  who 
does  not  deserve  even  to  be  called  a  tonsor  inequalis,  but  rather 
to  be  pronounced  simply  a  bungler  in  the  vulgar  tongue.  So 
with  your  permission,  Messer  Bardo,  I  will  take  my  leave  — 
well  understood  that  I  am  at  your  service  whenever  Maso 
calls  upon  me.  It  seems  a  thousand  years  till  I  dress  and  per¬ 
fume  the  damigella’s  hair,  which  deserves  to  shine  in  the 


68 


ROMOLA. 


heavens  as  a  constellation,  though  indeed  it  were  a  pity  for  it 
ever  to  go  so  far  out  of  reach/*’ 

Three  voices  made  a  fugue  of  friendly  farewells  to  Nello,  as 
he  retreated  with  a  bow  to  Eomola  and  a  beck  to  Tito.  The 
acute  barber  saw  that  the  pretty  youngster,  who  had  crept  into 
his  liking  by  some  strong  magic,  was  well  launched  in  Bardo’s 
favorable  regard ;  and  satisfied  that  his  introduction  had  not 
miscarried  so  far,  he  felt  the  propriety  of  retiring. 

The  little  burst  of  wrath,  called  forth  by  Nello’s  unlucky 
quotation,  had  diverted  Bardo’s  mind  from  the  feelings  which 
had  just  before  been  hemming  in  further  speech,  and  he  now 
addressed  Tito  again  with  his  ordinary  calmness. 

‘‘  Ah !  young  man,  you  are  happy  in  having  been  able  to 
unite  the  advantages  of  travel  with  those  of  study,  and  you 
will  be  welcome  among  us  as  a  bringer  of  fresh  tidings  from  a 
land  which  has  become  sadly  strange  to  us,  except  through  the 
agents  of  a  now  restricted  commerce  and  the  reports  of  hasty 
pilgrims.  For  those  days  are  in  the  far  distance  which  I  my¬ 
self  witnessed,  when  men  like  Aurispa  and  Guarino  went  out 
to  Greece  as  to  a  storehouse,  and  came  back  laden  with  manu¬ 
scripts  which  every  scholar  was  eager  to  borrow  —  and,  be  it 
owned  with  shame,  not  always  willing  to  restore  ;  nay,  even 
the  days  when  erudite  Greeks  flocked  to  our  shores  for  a  ref¬ 
uge,  seem  far  off  now  —  farther  off  than  the  oncoming  of  my 
blindness.  But  doubtless,  young  man,  research  after  the 
treasures  of  antiquity  was  not  alien  to  the  purpose  of  your 
travels  ?  ” 

“  Assuredly  not,”  said  Tito.  “  On  the  contrary,  my  com¬ 
panion —  my  father  —  was  willing  to  risk  his  life  in  his  zeal 
for  the  discovery  of  inscriptions  and  other  traces  of  ancient 
civilization.” 

“  And  I  trust  there  is  a  record  of  his  researches  and  their 
results,”  said  Bardo,  eagerly,  “since  they  must  be  even  more 
precious  than  those  of  Ciriaco,  which  I  have  diligently  availed 
myself  of,  though  they  are  not  always  illuminated  by  adequate 
learning.” 

“  There  was  such  a  record,”  said  Tito,  “  but  it  was  lost, 
like  everything  else,  in  the  shipwreck  I  suffered  below 


DAWNING  HOPES.  69 

Ancona.  The  only  record  left  is  such  as  remains  in  our  —  in 
my  memory.” 

“  You  must  lose  no  time  in  committing  it  to  paper,  young 
man,”  said  Bardo,  with  growing  interest.  “  Doubtless  you  re¬ 
member  much,  if  you  aided  in  transcription ;  for  when  I  was 
your  age,  words  wrought  themselves  into  my  mind  as  if  they 
had  been  fixed  by  the  tool  of  the  graver ;  wherefore  I  con¬ 
stantly  marvel  at  the  capriciousness  of  my  daughter’s  memory, 
which  grasps  certain  objects  with  tenacity,  and  lets  fall  all  those 
minutiae  whereon  depends  accuracy,  the  very  soul  of  scholar¬ 
ship.  But  I  apprehend  no  such  danger  with  you,  young  man, 
if  your  will  has  seconded  the  advantages  of  your  training.” 

When  Bardo  made  this  reference  to  his  daughter,  Tito 
ventured  to  turn  his  eyes  towards  her,  and  at  the  accusation 
against  her  memory  his  face  broke  into  its  brightest  smile, 
which  was  reflected  as  inevitably  as  sudden  sunbeams  in  Ro- 
mola’s.  Conceive  the  soothing  delight  of  that  smile  to  her ! 
Romola  had  never  dreamed  that  there  was  a  scholar  in  the 
world  who  would  smile  at  a  deficiency  for  which  she  was 
constantly  made  to  feel  herself  a  culprit.  It  was  like  the 
dawn  of  a  new  sense  to  her  —  the  sense  of  comradeship.  They 
did  not  look  away  from  each  other  immediately,  as  if  the 
smile  had  been  a  stolen  one ;  they  looked  and  smiled  with 
frank  enjoyment. 

“  She  is  not  really  so  cold  and  proud,”  thought  Tito. 

“Does  he  forget  too,  I  wonder?”  thought  Romola.  “Yet 
T  hope  not,  else  he  will  vex  my  father.” 

But  Tito  was  obliged  to  turn  away,  and  answer  Bardo’s 
question. 

“I  have  had  much  practice  in  transcription,”  he  said;  “but 
In  the  case  of  inscriptions  copied  in  memorable  scenes,  ren¬ 
dered  doubly  impressive  by  the  sense  of  risk  and  adventure,  it 
may  have  happened  that  my  retention  of  written  characters 
has  been  weakened.  On  the  plain  of  the  Eurotas,  or  among 
the  gigantic  stones  of  Mycenae  and  Tyrins  —  especially  when 
the  fear  of  the  Turk  hovers  over  one  like  a  vulture  —  the  mind 
wanders,  even  though  the  hand  writes  faithfully  what  the  ejm 
dictates.  But  something  doubtless  I  have  retained,”  added 


70 


ROMOLA. 


Tito,  with  a  modesty  which  was  not  false,  though  he  was 
conscious  that  it  was  politic ;  “  something  that  might  be  of 
service  if  illustrated  and  corrected  by  a  wider  learning  than 
my  own.” 

That  is  well  spoken,  young  man,”  said  Bardo,  delighted. 
‘^And  I  will  not  withhold  from  you  such  aid  as  I  can  give,  if 
you  like  to  communicate  with  me  concerning  your  recollec¬ 
tions.  I  foresee  a  work  which  will  be  a  useful  supplement  to 
the  ‘Isolario’  of  Christoforo  Buondelmonte,  and  which  may 
take  rank  with  the  ‘  Itineraria  ’  of  Ciriaco  and  the  admirable 
Ambrogio  Traversari.  But  we  must  prepare  ourselves  for  cal¬ 
umny,  young  man,”  Bardo  went  on  with  energy,  as  if  the  work 
were  already  growing  so  fast  that  the  time  of  trial  was  near ; 
‘‘if  your  book  contains  novelties  you  will  be  charged  with 
forgery ;  if  my  elucidations  should  clash  with  any  principles 
of  interpretation  adopted  by  another  scholar,  our  personal 
characters  will  be  attacked,  we  shall  be  impeached  with  foul 
actions ;  you  must  prepare  yourself  to  be  told  that  your 
mother  was  a  fishwoman,  and  that  your  father  was  a  rene¬ 
gade  priest  or  a  hanged  malefactor.  I  myself,  for  having 
shown  error  in  a  single  proposition,  had  an  invective  written 
against  me  wherein  I  was  taxed  with  treachery,  fraud,  inde¬ 
cency,  and  even  hideous  crimes.  Such,  my  young  friend,  — 
such  are  the  flowers  with  which  the  glorious  path  of  scholarship 
is  strewed  !  But  tell  me,  then  :  I  have  learned  much  concern¬ 
ing  Byzantium  and  Thessalonica  long  ago  from  Demetrio  Cal- 
condila,  who  has  but  lately  departed  from  Florence ;  but  you, 
it  seems,  have  visited  less  familiar  scenes  ?  ” 

“  Yes ;  we  made  what  I  may  call  a  pilgrimage  full  of  danger, 
for  the  sake  of  visiting  places  which  have  almost  died  out  of 
the  memory  of  the  West,  for  they  lie  away  from  the  track  of 
pilgrims  ;  and  my  father  used  to  say  that  scholars  themselves 
hardly  imagine  them  to  have  any  existence  out  of  books.  He 
was  of  opinion  that  a  new  and  more  glorious  era  would  open 
for  learning  when  men  should  begin  to  look  for  their  commen¬ 
taries  on  the  ancient  writers  in  the  remains  of  cities  and  tem¬ 
ples,  nay,  in  the  paths  of  the  rivers,  and  on  the  face  of  the 
valleys  and  the  mountains.” 


DAWNING  HOPES. 


71 


Ah  !  ”  said  Bardo,  fervidly,  “  your  father,  then,  was  not  a 
common  man.  Was  he  fortunate,  may  I  ask  ?  Had  he  many 
friends  ?  ”  These  last  words  were  uttered  in  a  tone  charged 
with  meaning. 

‘‘  No ;  he  made  enemies  —  chiefly,  I  believe,  by  a  certain  im¬ 
petuous  candor ;  and  they  hindered  his  advancement,  so  that 
he  lived  in  obscurity.  And  he  would  never  stoop  to  concili¬ 
ate  :  he  could  never  forget  an  injury.” 

“  Ah  !  ”  said  Bardo  again,  with  a  long,  deep  intonation. 

“  Among  our  hazardous  expeditious,”  continued  Tito,  will¬ 
ing  to  prevent  further  questions  on  a  point  so  personal,  “  I 
remember  with  particular  vividness  a  hastily  snatched  visit  to 
Athens.  Our  hurry,  and  the  double  danger  of  being  seized  as 
prisoners  by  the  Turks,  and  of  our  galley  raising  anchor  before 
we  could  return,  made  it  seem  like  a  fevered  vision  of  the 
night  —  the  wide  plain,  the  girdling  mountains,  the  ruined 
porticos  and  columns,  either  standing  far  aloof,  as  if  receding 
from  our  hurried  footsteps,  or  else  jammed  in  confusedly 
among  the  dwellings  of  Christians  degraded  into  servitude,  or 
among  the  forts  and  turrets  of  their  Moslem  conquerors,  who 
have  their  stronghold  on  the  Acropolis.” 

‘•You  fill  me  with  surprise,”  said  Bardo.  “Athens,  then,  is 
not  utterly  destroyed  and  swept  away,  as  I  had  imagined  ?  ” 

“No  wonder  you  should  be  under  that  mistake,  for  few 
even  of  the  Greeks  themselves,  4vho  live  beyond  the  mountain 
boundary  of  Attica,  know  anything  about  the  present  condi¬ 
tion  of  Athens,  or  Setine,  as  the  sailors  call  it.  I  remember, 
as  we  were  rounding  the  promontory  of  Sunium,  the  Greek 
pilot  we  had  on  board  our  Venetian  galley  pointed  to  the 
mighty  columns  that  stand  on  the  summit  of  the  rock  —  the 
remains,  as  you  know  well,  of  the  great  temple  erected  to  the 
goddess  Athena,  who  looked  down  from  that  high  shrine  with 
triumph  at  her  conquered  rival  Poseidon  ;  —  well,  our  Greek 
pilot,  pointing  to  those  columns,  said,  ‘  That  was  the  school  of 
the  great  philosopher  Aristotle.’  And  at  Athens  itself,  the 
monk  who  acted  as  our  guide  in  the  hasty  view  we  snatched, 
insisted  most  on  showing  us  the  spot  where  St.  Philip  baptized 
the  Ethiopian  eunuch,  or  some  such  legend.” 


72 


ROMOLA. 


“  Talk  not  of  monks  and  their  legends,  young  man  !  ”  said 
Bardo,  interrupting  Tito  impetuously.  “  It  is  enough  to  over* 
lay  human  hope  and  enterprise  with  an  eternal  frost,  to  think 
that  the  ground  which  was  trodden  by  philosophers  and  poets 
is  crawled  over  by  those  insect-swarms  of  besotted  fanatics  or 
howling  hypocrites.” 

Perdio,  I  have  no  affection  for  them,”  said  Tito,  with  a 
shrug ;  “  servitude  agrees  well  with  a  religion  like  theirs, 
which  lies  in  the  renunciation  of  all  that  makes  life  precious 
to  other  men.  And  they  carry  the  yoke  that  befits  them : 
their  matin  chant  is  drowned  by  the  voice  of  the  muezzin,  who, 
from  the  gallery  of  the  high  tower  on  the  Acropolis,  calls  every 
Mussulman  to  his  prayers.  That  tower  springs  from  the  Par¬ 
thenon  itself  ;  and  every  time  we  paused  and  directed  our  eyes 
toward  it,  our  guide  set  up  a  wail,  that  a  temple  which  had 
once  been  won  from  the  diabolical  uses  of  the  Pagans  to 
become  the  temple  of  another  virgin  than  Pallas  —  the  Virgin- 
Mother  of  God  —  was  now  again  perverted  to  the  accursed 
ends  of  the  Moslem.  It  was  the  sight  of  those  walls  of  the 
Acropolis,  which  disclosed  themselves  in  the  distance  as  we 
leaned  over  the  side  of  our  galley  when  it  was  forced  by  con¬ 
trary  winds  to  anchor  in  the  Piraeus,  that  fired  my  father’s  mind 
with  the  determination  to  see  Athens  at  all  risks,  and  in  spite 
of  the  sailors’  warnings  that  if  we  lingered  till  a  change  of  wind, 
they  would  depart  without  us :  but,  after  all,  it  was  impossible 
for  us  to  venture  near  the  Acropolis,  for  the  sight  of  men  eager 
in  examining  ‘old  stones’  raised  the  suspicion  that  we  were 
Venetian  spies,  and  we  had  to  hurry  back  to  the  harbor.” 

“We  will  talk  more  of  these  things,”  said  Bardo,  eagerly. 
“You  must  recall  everything,  to  the  minutest  trace  left  in 
your  memory.  You  will  win  the  gratitude  of  after-times  by 
leaving  a  record  of  the  aspect  Greece  bore  while  yet  the  bar¬ 
barians  had  not  swept  away  every  trace  of  the  structures  that 
Pausanias  and  Pliny  described :  you  will  take  those  great 
writers  as  your  models ;  and  such  contribution  of  criticism 
and  suggestion  as  my  riper  mind  can  supply  shall  not  be  want 
ing  to  you.  There  will  be  much  to  tell;  for  you  have  trav> 
elled,  you  said,  in  the  Peloponnesus  ?  ” 


DAWNING  HOPES. 


73 


“Yes ;  and  in  Boeotia  also :  I  have  rested  in  the  groves  of 
icon,  and  tasted  of  the  fountain  Hippocrene.  But  on  every 
memorable  spot  in  Greece  conquest  after  conquest  has  set  its 
seal,  till  there  is  a  confusion  of  ownership  even  in  ruins,  that 
only  close  study  and  comparison  could  unravel.  High  over 
every  fastness,  from  the  plains  of  Lacedaemon  to  the  Straits  of 
Thermopylae,  there  towers  some  huge  Frankish  fortress,  once 
inhabited  by  a  French  or  Italian  marquis,  now  either  aban¬ 
doned  or  held  by  Turkish  bands.” 

“  Stay  !  ”  cried  Bardo,  whose  mind  was  now  too  thoroughly 
preoccupied  by  the  idea  of  the  future  book  to  attend  to  Tito’s 
further  narration.  “Do  you  think  of  writing  in  Latin  or 
Greek  ?  Doubtless  Greek  is  the  more  ready  clothing  for  your 
thoughts,  and  it  is  the  nobler  language.  But,  on  the  other 
hand,  Latin  is  the  tongue  in  which  we  shall  measure  ourselves 
with  the  larger  and  more  famous  number  of  modern  rivals. 
And  if  you  are  less  at  ease  in  it,  I  will  aid  you — yes,  I  will 
spend  on  you  that  long-accumulated  study  which  was  to  have 
been  thrown  into  the  channel  of  another  work  —  a  work  in 
which  I  myself  was  to  have  had  a  helpmate.” 

Bardo  paused  a  moment,  and  then  added  — 

“  But  who  knows  whether  that  work  may  not  be  executed 
yet  ?  For  you,  too,  young  man,  have  been  brought  up  by  a 
fatner  who  poured  into  your  mind  all  the  long-gatherea  stream 
of  his  knowledge  and  experience.  Our  aid  might  be  mutual.” 

Romola,  who  had  watched  her  father’s  growing  excitement, 
and  divined  well  the  invisible  currents  of  feeling  that  deter¬ 
mined  every  question  and  remark,  felt  herself  in  a  glow  of 
strange  anxiety  :  she  turned  her  eyes  on  Tito  continually,  to 
watch  the  impression  her  father’s  words  made  on  him,  afraid 
lest  he  should  be  inclined  to  dispel  these  visions  of  co-opera¬ 
tion  which  were  lighting  up  her  father’s  face  with  a  new  hope. 
But  no  !  He  looked  so  bright  and  gentle :  he  must  feel,  as 
she  did,  that  in  this  eagerness  of  blind  age  there  was  piteous¬ 
ness  enough  to  call  forth  inexhaustible  patience.  How  much 
more  strongly  he  would  feel  this  if  he  knew  about  her  brother  ! 
A  girl  of  eighteen  imagines  the  feelings  behind  the  face  that 
has  moved  her  with  its  sympathetic  youth,  as  easily  as  primitive 


74 


ROMOLA. 


people  imagined  the  humors  of  the  gods  in  fair  weather  :  what 
is  she  to  believe  in,  if  not  in  this  vision  woven  from  within  ? 

And  Tito  was  really  very  far  from  feeling  impatient.  He 
delighted  in  sitting  there  with  the  sense  that  Romola’s  atten¬ 
tion  was  fixed  on  him,  and  that  he  could  occasionally  look  at 
her.  He  was  pleased  that  Bardo  should  take  an  interest  in 
him  ;  and  he  did  not  dwell  with  enough  seriousness  on  the 
prospect  of  the  work  in  which  he  was  to  be  aided,  to  feel 
moved  by  it  to  anything  else  than  that  easy,  good-humored 
acquiescence  which  was  natural  to  him. 

“  I  shall  be  proud  and  happy,”  he  said,  in  answer  to  Bardo’s 
last  words,  “  if  my  services  can  be  held  a  meet  offering  to  the 
matured  scholarship  of  Messere.  But  doubtless” — here  he 
looked  towards  Bomola  —  “  the  lovely  damigella,  your  daugh¬ 
ter,  makes  all  other  aid  superfluous  ;  for  I  have  learned  from 
Nello  that  she  has  been  nourished  on  the  highest  studies  from 
her  earliest  years.” 

‘‘You  are  mistaken,”  said  Bomola;  “I  am  by  no  means 
sufficient  to  my  father  :  I  have  not  the  gifts  that  are  necessary 
for  scholarship.” 

Komola  did  not  make  this  self-depreciatory  statement  in  a 
tone  of  anxious  humility,  but  with  a  proud  gravity. 

“Nay,  my  Bomola,”  said  her  father,  not  willing  that  the 
stranger  should  have  too  low  a  conception  of  his  daughter’s 
powers  ;  “  thou  art  not  destitute  of  gifts  ;  rather,  thou  art  en¬ 
dowed  beyond  the  measure  of  women ;  but  thou  hast  withal 
';he  woman’s  delicate  frame,  which  ever  craves  repose  and 
variety,  and  so  begets  a  wandering  imagination.  My  daugh¬ 
ter  ”  —  turning  to  Tito  —  “  has  been  very  precious  to  me,  fill¬ 
ing  up  to  the  best  of  her  power  the  place  of  a  son.  For  I  had 
once  a  son  ■ — ” 

Bardo  checked  himself :  he  did  not  wish  to  assume  an  atti¬ 
tude  of  complaint  in  the  presence  of  a  stranger,  and  he 
remembered  that  this  young  man,  in  whom  he  had  unex¬ 
pectedly  become  so  much  interested,  was  still  a  stranger, 
towards  whom  it  became  him  rather  to  keep  the  position  of 
a  patron.  His  pride  was  roused  to  double  activity  by  the  fear 
that  he  had  forgotten  his  dignity. 


DAWNING  HOPES. 


75 


But,”  he  resumed,  in  his  original  tone  of  condescension, 
•^we  are  departing  from  what  I  believe  is  to  you  the  most 
important  business.  Nello  informed  me  that  you  had  certain 
gems  which  you  would  fain  dispose  of,  and  that  you  desired  a 
passport  to  some  man  of  wealth  and  taste  who  would  be  likely 
to  become  a  purchaser.” 

'  It  is  true  ;  for,  though  I  have  obtained  employment,  as  a 
corrector  with  the  Cennini,  my  payment  leaves  little  margin 
beyond  the  provision  of  necessaries,  and  would  leave  less  but 
that  my  good  friend  Nello  insists  on  my  hiring  a  lodging  from 
him,  and  saying  nothing  about  the  rent  till  better  days.” 

‘‘Nello  is  a  good-hearted  prodigal,”  said  Bardo ;  “and 
though,  with  that  ready  ear  and  ready  tongue  of  his,  he  is  too 
much  like  the  ill-famed  Margites  —  knowing  many  things  and 
knowing  them  all  badly,  as  I  hinted  to  him  but  now  —  he  is 
nevertheless  ‘  abnormis  sapiens,’  after  the  manner  of  our  born 
Florentines.  But  have  you  the  gems  with  you  ?  I  would 
willingly  know  what  they  are  — yet  it  is  useless:  no,  it  might 
only  deepen  regret.  I  cannot  add  to  my  store.” 

“  I  have  one  or  two  intaglios  of  much  beauty,”  said  Tito, 
proceeding  to  draw  from  his  wallet  a  small  case. 

But  Bomola  no  sooner  saw  the  movement  than  she  looked 
at  him  with  significant  gravity,  and  placed  her  finger  on  her 
lips, 

“  Con  viso  che  tacendo  dicea,  Taci.” 

If  Bardo  were  made  aware  that  the  gems  were  within  reach, 
she  knew  well  he  would  want  a  minute  description  of  them, 
and  it  would  become  pain  to  him  that  they  should  go  away 
from  him,  even  if  he  did  not  insist  on  some  device  for  pur¬ 
chasing  them  in  spite  of  poverty.  But  she  had  no  sooner 
made  this  sign  than  she  felt  rather  guilty  and  ashamed  at 
having  virtually  confessed  a  weakness  of  her  father’s  to  a 
stranger.  It  seemed  that  she  was  destined  to  a  sudden  con  ■ 
fidence  and  familiarity  with  this  young  Greek,  strangely 
at  variance  with  her  deep-seated  pride  and  reserve ;  and 
this  consciousness  again  brought  the  unwonted  color  to  het 
cheeks. 


76 


ROMOLA. 


Tito  understood  her  look  and  sign,  and  immediately  with- 
drew  his  hand  from  the  case,  saying  in  a  careless  tone,  so  as  to 
make  it  appear  that  he  was  merely  following  up  his  last  words, 
“But  they  are  usually  in  the  keeping  of  Messer  Domenico 
Cennini,  who  has  strong  and  safe  places  for  these  things.  He 
estimates  them  as  worth  at  least  five  hundred  ducats.” 

“Ah,  then,  they  are  fine  intagli,”  said  Bardo.  “Five  hun¬ 
dred  ducats  !  Ah,  more  than  a  man’s  ransom  !  ” 

Tito  gave  a  slight,  almost  imperceptible  start,  and  opened 
his  long  dark  eyes  with  questioning  surprise  at  Bardo’s  blind 
face,  as  if  his  words  —  a  mere  phrase  of  cojnmon  parlance,  at 
a  time  when  men  were  often  being  ransomed  from  slavery  or 
imprisonment  —  had  had  some  special  meaning  for  him.  But 
the  next  moment  he  looked  towards  Bomola,  as  if  her  eyes 
must  be  her  father’s  interpreters.  She,  intensely  preoccupied 
with  what  related  to  her  father,  imagined  that  Tito  was  look¬ 
ing  to  her  again  for  some  guidance,  and  immediately  spoke. 

“  Alessandra  Scala  delights  in  gems,  you  know,  father  ;  she 
calls  them  her  winter  flowers ;  and  the  Segretario  would  be 
almost  sure  to  buy  any  gems  that  she  wished  for.  Besides, 
he  himself  sets  great  store  by  rings  and  sigils,  which  he  wears 
as  a  defence  against  pains  in  the  joints.” 

“  It  is  true,”  said  Bardo.  “  Bartolommeo  has  overmuch  con¬ 
fidence  in  the  efficacy  of  gems  —  a  confidence  wider  than  what  is 
sanctioned  by  Pliny,  who  clearly  shows  that  he  regards  many 
beliefs  of  that  sort  as  idle  superstitions ;  though  not  to  the 
utter  denial  of  medicinal  virtues  in  gems.  Wherefore,  I  my¬ 
self,  as  you  observe,  young  man,  wear  certain  rings,  which  the 
discreet  Camillo  Leonardi  prescribed  to  me  by  letter  when 
two  year’s  ago  I  had  a  certain  infirmity  of  sudden  numbness. 
But  thou  hast  spoken  well,  Eomola.  I  will  dictate  a  letter  to 
Bartolommeo,  which  Maso  shall  carry.  But  it  were  well  that 
Messere  should  notify  to  thee  what  the  gems  are,  together 
with  the  intagli  they  bear,  as  a  warrant  to  Bartolommeo  that 
they  will  be  worthy  of  his  attention.” 

“Hay,  father,”  said  Romola,  whose  dread  lest  a  paroxysm 
of  the  collector’s  mania  should  seize  her  father,  gave  her  the 
courage  to  resist  his  proposal.  “  Your  word  will  be  sufficient 


DAWNING  HOPES.  77 

that  Messere  is  a  scholar  and  has  travelled  much.  The  Segre- 
tario  will  need  no  further  inducement  to  receive  him.” 

“  True,  child,”  said  Bardo,  touched  on  a  chord  that  was  sure 
to  respond.  ‘‘  I  have  no  need  to  add  proofs  and  arguments 
in  confirmation  of  my  word  to  Bartolommeo.  And  I  doubt 
not  that  this  young  man’s  presence  is  in  accord  with  the  tones 
of  his  voice,  so  that,  the  door  being  once  opened,  he  will  be 
his  own  best  advocate.” 

Bardo  paused  a  few  moments,  but  his  silence  was  evidently 
charged  with  some  idea  that  he  was  hesitating  to  express,  for 
he  once  leaned  forward  a  little  as  if  he  were  going  to  speak, 
then  turned  his  head  aside  towards  Romola  and  sank  backward 
again.  At  last,  as  if  he  had  made  up  his  mind,  he  said  in  a 
tone  which  might  have  become  a  prince  giving  the  courteous 
signal  of  dismissal  — 

‘‘I  am  somewhat  fatigued  this  morning,  and  shall  prefer 
seeing  you  again  to-morrow,  when  I  shall  be  able  to  give  you 
the  secretary’s  answer,  authorizing  you  to  present  yourself  to 
him  at  some  given  time.  But  before  you  go  ”  —  here  the  old 
man,  in  spite  of  himself,  fell  into  a  more  faltering  tone  —  ‘‘you 
will  perhaps  permit  me  to  touch  your  hand  ?  It  is  long  since 
I  touched  the  hand  of  a  young  man.” 

Bardo  had  stretched  out  his  aged  white  hand,  and  Tito 
immediately  placed  his  dark  but  delicate  and  supple  fingers 
within  it.  Bardo’s  cramped  fingers  closed  over  them,  and  he 
held  them  for  a  few  minutes  in  silence.  Then  he  said  — 

“  Komola,  has  this  young  man  the  same  complexion  as  thy 
brother  —  fair  and  pale  ?  ” 

“No,  father,”  Bomola  answered,  with  determined  composure, 
though  her  heart  began  to  beat  violently  with  mingled  emo¬ 
tions.  “  The  hair  of  Messere  is  dark  —  his  complexion  is  dark.” 
Inwardly  she  said,  “  Will  he  mind  it  ?  will  it  be  disagreeable  ? 
No,  he  looks  so  gentle  and  good-natured.”  Then  aloud  again : 

“Would  Messere  permit  my  father  to  touch  his  hair  and 
face  ?  ” 

Her  eyes  inevitably  made  a  timid  entreating  appeal  while 
she  asked  this,  and  Tito’s  met  them  with  soft  brightness  as  he 
s:dd,  “  Assuredly  and,  leaning  forward,  raised  Bardo’s  hand 


78 


ROMOLA. 


to  his  curls,  with  a  readiness  of  assent,  which  was  the  greater 
relief  to  her,  because  it  was  unaccompanied  by  any  sign  of 
embarrassment. 

Bardo  passed  his  hand  again  and  again  over  the  long  curls 
and  grasped  them  a  little,  as  if  their  spiral  resistance  made  his 
inward  vision  clearer  ;  then  he  passed  his  hand  over  the  brow 
and  cheek,  tracing  the  profile  with  the  edge  of  his  palm  and 
fourth  finger,  and  letting  the  breadth  of  his  hand  repose  on 
the  rich  oval  of  the  cheek. 

“  Ah  !  ”  he  said,  as  his  hand  glided  from  the  face  and  rested 
on  the  young  man’s  shoulder  He  must  be  very  unlike  thy 
brother,  Eomola.’  and  it  is  the  better.  You  see  no  visions,  I 
trust,  my  young  friend  ?  ” 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened,  and  there  entered,  un¬ 
announced,  a  tall  elderly  man  in  a  handsome  black  silk  lucco, 
who,  unwinding  his  becchetto  from  his  neck  and  taking  off  his 
cap,  disclosed  a  head  as  white  as  Bardo’s.  He  cast  a  keen 
glance  of  surprise  at  the  group  before  him  — -  the  young 
stranger  leaning  in  that  filial  attitude,  while  Bardo’s  hand 
rested  on  his  shoulder,  and  Eomola  sitting  near  with  eyes 
dilated  by  anxiety  and  agitation.  But  there  was  an  instanta¬ 
neous  change :  Bardo  let  fall  his  hand,  Tito  raised  himself 
from  his  stooping  posture,  and  Eomola  rose  to  meet  the  visitor 
with  an  alacrity  which  implied  all  the  greater  intimacy,  because 
it  was  unaccompanied  by  any  smile. 

“  Well,  god-daughter,”  said  the  stately  man,  as  he  touched 
Eomola’s  shoulder  ;  “  Maso  said  you  had  a  visitor,  but  I  came 
in  nevertheless.” 

“  It  is  thou,  Bernardo,”  said  Bardo.  “  Thou  art  come  at  a 
fortunate  moment.  This,  young  man,”  he  continued,  while 
Tito  rose  and  bowed,  “  is  one  of  the  chief  citizens  of  Florence, 
Messer  Bernardo  del  Nero,  my  oldest,  I  had  almost  said  my 
only  friend  —  whose  good  opinion,  if  you  can  win  it,  may  carry 
you  far.  He  is  but  tliree-and-twenty,  Bernardo,  yet  he  can 
doubtless  tell  thee  much  which  thou  wilt  care  to  hear  ;  for 
though  a  scholar,  he  has  already  travelled  far,  and  looked  on 
other  things  besides  the  manuscripts  for  which  thou  hast  too 
light  an  esteem.” 


DAWNING  HOPES. 


79 


‘^Ah,  a  Greek,  as  I  augur,’’  said  Bernardo,  returning  Tito’s 
reverence  but  slightly,  and  surveying  him  with  that  sort  of 
glance  which  seems  almost  to  cut  like  fine  steel.  “Newly 
arrived  in  Florence,  it  appears.  The  name  of  Messere  —  or 
part  of  it,  for  it  is  doubtless  a  long  one  ?  ” 

“  On  the  contrary,”  said  Tito,  with  perfect  good-humor, 
“  it  is  most  modestly  free  from  polysyllabic  pomp.  My  name 
is  Tito  Melema.” 

“Truly?”  said  Bernardo,  rather  scornfully,  as  he  took 
a  seat ;  “  I  had  expected  it  to  be  at  least  as  long  as  the 
names  of  a  city,  a  river,  a  province,  and  an  empire  all  put 
together.  We  Florentines  mostly  use  names  as  we  do  prawns, 
and  strip  them  of  all  flourishes  before  we  trust  them  to  our 
throats.” 

“  Well,  Bardo,”  he  continued,  as  if  the  stranger  were  not 
worth  further  notice,  and  changing  his  tone  of  sarcastic  sus¬ 
picion  for  one  of  sadness,  “  we  have  buried  him.” 

“  Ah  !  ”  replied  Bardo,  with  corresponding  sadness,  “  and 
a  new  epoch  has  come  for  Florence  —  a  dark  one,  I  fear. 
Lorenzo  has  left  behind  him  an  inheritance  that  is  but  like 
the  alchemist’s  laboratory  when  the  wisdom  of  the  alchemist 
is  gone.” 

“Not  altogether  so,”  said  Bernardo.  “Piero  de’  Medici  has 
abundant  intelligence  ;  his  faults  are  only  the  faults  of  hot 
blood.  I  love  the  lad  —  lad  he  will  always  be  to  me,  as  I  have 
always  been  Gittle  father  ’  to  him.” 

“  Yet  all  who  want  a  new  order  of  things  are  likely  to  con¬ 
ceive  new  hopes,”  said  Bardo.  “  We  shall  have  the  old  strife 
of  parties,  I  fear.” 

“  If  we  could  have  a  new  order  of  things  that  was  some¬ 
thing  else  than  knocking  down  one  coat  of  arms  to  put  up 
another,”  said  Bernardo,  “  I  should  be  ready  to  say,  ‘  I  belong 
to  no  party  ;  I  am  a  Florentine.’  But  as  long  as  parties  are 
in  question,  I  am  a  Medicean,  and  will  be  a  Medicean  till  I  die, 
I  am  of  the  same  mind  as  Farinata  degli  Uberti :  if  any  man 
asks  me  what  is  meant  by  siding  with  a  party,  I  say,  as  he 
did,  ‘  To  wish  ill  or  well,  for  the  sake  of  past  wrongs  or 
kindnesses.’  ” 


80  ROMOLA. 

During  this  short  dialogue,  Tito  had  been  standing,  and  no'W 
took  his  leave. 

“  But  come  again  at  the  same  hour  to-morrow,”  said  Bardo, 
graciously,  before  Tito  left  the  room,  “  that  I  may  give  you 
Bartolommeo’s  answer.” 

“  From  what  quarter  of  the  sky  has  this  prettj’’  Greek  young¬ 
ster  alighted  so  close  to  thy  chair,  Bardo  ?  ”  said  Bernardo  del 
Nero,  as  the  door  closed.  He  spoke  with  dry  emphasis,  evi¬ 
dently  intended  to  convey  something  more  to  Bardo  than  was 
implied  by  the  mere  words. 

“  He  is  a  scholar  who  has  been  shipwrecked  and  has  saved 
a  few  gems,  for  which  he  wants  to  find  a  purchaser.  I  am 
going  to  send  him  to  Bartolommeo  Scala,  for  thou  knowest  it 
were  more  prudent  in  me  to  abstain  from  further  purchases.” 

Bernardo  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  said,  “  Romola,  wilt 
thou  see  if  my  servant  is  without  ?  I  ordered  him  to  wait 
for  me  here.”  Then,  when  Romola  was  at  a  sufficient  dis¬ 
tance,  —  he  leaned  forward  and  said  to  Bardo  in  a  low,  emphatic 
tone  — 

“  Remember,  Bardo,  thou  hast  a  rare  gem  of  thy  own ;  take 
care  no  one  gets  it  who  is  not  likely  to  pay  a  worthy  price. 
That  pretty  Greek  has  a  lithe  sleekness  about  him,  that  seems 
marvellously  fitted  for  slipping  easily  into  any  nest  he  fixes 
his  mind  on.” 

Bardo  was  startled  :  the  association  of  Tito  with  the  image 
of  his  lost  son  had  excluded  instead  of  suggesting  the  thought 
of  Romola.  But  almost  immediately  there  seemed  to  be  a 
reaction  which  made  him  grasp  the  warning  as  if  it  had  been 
a  hope. 

“  But  why  not,  Bernardo  ?  If  the  young  man  approved 
himself  worthy  —  he  is  a  scholar  —  and  —  and  there  would 
be  no  difficulty  about  the  dowry,  which  always  makes  thee 
gloomy.” 


A  LEARNED  SQUABBLK 


^1 


CHAPTER  VIL 

A  LEARNED  SQUABBLE. 

Bartolommeo  Scala,  secretary  of  the  Florentine  Republic, 
on  whom  Tito  Melema  had  been  thus  led  to  anchor  his  hopes, 
lived  in  a  handsome  palace  close  to  the  Porta  Pinti,  now 
known  as  the  Casa  Gherardesca.  His  arms  —  an  azure  ladder 
transverse  on  a  golden  field,  with  the  motto  Gradatim  placed 
over  the  entrance  —  told  all  comers  that  the  miller’s  son  held 
his  ascent  to  honors  by  his  own  efforts  a  fact  to  be  proclaimed 
without  wincing.  The  secretary  was  a  vain  and  pompous  man, 
but  he  was  also  an  honest  one  :  he  was  sincerely  convinced  of 
his  own  merit,  and  could  see  no  reason  for  feigning.  The  top¬ 
most  round  of  his  azure  ladder  had  been  reached  by  this  time  : 
he  had  held  his  secretaryship  these  twenty  years  —  had  long 
since  made  his  orations  on  the  ringhiera,  or  platform  of  the 
Old  Palace,  as  the  custom  was,  in  the  presence  of  princely 
visitors,  while  Marzocco,  the  republican  lion,  wore  his  gold 
crown  on  the  occasion,  and  all  the  people  cried,  ‘‘  Viva  Messer 
Bartolommeo  !  ”  —  had  been  on  an  embassy  to  Rome,  and 
had  there  been  made  titular  Senator,  Apostolical  Secretary, 
Knight  of  the  Golden  Spur ;  and  had,  eight  years  ago,  been 
Gonfaloniere  —  last  goal  of  the  Florentine  citizen’s  ambition. 
Meantime  he  had  got  richer  and  richer,  and  more  and  more 
gouty,  after  the  manner  of  successful  mortality  ;  and  the 
Knight  of  the  Golden  Spur  had  often  to  sit  with  helpless 
cushioned  heel  under  the  handsome  loggia  he  had  built  for 
himself,  overlooking  the  spacious  gardens  and  lawn  at  the 
back  of  his  palace. 

He  was  in  this  position  on  the  day  when  he  had  granted  the 
desired  interview  to  Tito  Melema.  The  May  afternoon  sun 
was  on  the  flowers  and  the  grass  beyond  the  pleasant  shade  of 
the  loggia;  the  too  stately  silk  lucco  was  cast  aside,  and  the  light 
loose  mantle  was  thrown  over  his  tunic ;  his  beautiful  daughter 
Alessandra  and  her  husband,  the  Greek  soldier-poet  Marullo, 

Q 


VOL.  V 


82 


ROMOLA. 


were  seated  on  one  side  of  Mm  :  on  the  other,  two  friends  not 
oppressively  illustrious,  and  therefore  the  better  listeners. 
Yet,  to  say  nothing  of  the  gout,  Messer  Bartolommeo’s  felicity 
was  far  from  perfect :  it  was  embittered  by  the  contents  of 
certain  papers  that  lay  before  him,  consisting  chiefly  of  a  cor¬ 
respondence  between  himself  and  Politian.  It  was  a  human 
foible  at  that  period  (incredible  as  it  may  seem)  to  recite 
quarrels,  and  favor  scholarly  visitors  with  the  communication 
of  an  entire  and  lengthy  correspondence ;  and  this  was  neither 
the  first  nor  the  second  time  that  Scala  had  asked  the  candid 
opinion  of  his  friends  as  to  the  balance  of  right  and  wrong  in 
some  half-score  Latin  letters  between  himself  and  Politian, 
all  springing  out  of  certain  epigrams  written  in  the  most  play¬ 
ful  tone  in  the  world.  It  was  the  story  of  a  very  typical  and 
pretty  quarrel,  in  which  we  are  interested,  because  it  supplied 
precisely  that  thistle  of  hatred  necessary,  according  to  Nello, 
as  a  stimulus  to  the  sluggish  paces  of  the  cautious  steed. 
Friendship. 

Politian,  having  been  a  rejected  pretender  to  the  love  and 
the  hand  of  Scala’s  daughter,  kept  a  very  sharp  and  learned 
tooth  in  readiness  against  the  too  prosperous  and  presump¬ 
tuous  secretary,  who  had  declined  the  greatest  scholar  of  the 
age  for  a  son-in-law.  Scala  was  a  meritorious  public  servant, 
and,  moreover,  a  lucky  man  —  naturally  exasperating  to  an 
offended  scholar  ;  but  then  —  oh  beautiful  balance  of  things  ! 
—  he  had  an  itch  for  authorship,  and  was  a  bad  writer  — 
one  of  those  excellent  people  who,  sitting  in  gouty  slippers, 
“  penned  poetical  trifles  ”  entirely  for  their  own  amusement, 
without  any  view  to  an  audience,  and,  consequently,  sent 
them  to  their  friends  in  letters,  which  were  the  literary 
neriodicais  of  the  fifteenth  century.  Now  Scala  had  abun¬ 
dance  of  friends  who  were  ready  to  praise  his  writings :  friends 
like  Ficino  and  Landino  —  amiable  browsers  in  the  Medicean 
park  along  with  himself  —  who  found  his  Latin  prose  style 
elegant  and  masculine  ;  and  the  terrible  Joseph  Scaliger,  who 
was  to  pronounce  him  totally  ignorant  of  Latinity,  was  at  a 
comfortable  distance  in  the  next  century.  But  when  was  the 
fatal  coquetry  inherent  in  superfluous  authorship  ever  quite 


A  LEARNED  SQUABBLE. 


83 


contented  with  the  ready  praise  of  friends  ?  That  critical 
supercilious  Politian  —  a  fellow-browser,  who  was  far  from 
amiable  —  must  be  made  aware  that  the  solid  secretary  showed, 
in  his  leisure  hours,  a  pleasant  fertility  in  verses,  which  indi¬ 
cated  pretty  clearly  how  much  he  might  do  in  that  way  if  he 
were  not  a  man  of  affairs. 

Ineffable  moment !  when  the  man  you  secretly  hate  sends 
you  a  Latin  epigram  with  a  false  gender  —  hendecasyllables 
with  a  questionable  elision,  at  least  a  toe  too  much  —  attempts 
at  poetic  figures  which  are  manifest  solecisms.  That  moment 
had  come  to  Politian  :  the  secretary  had  put  forth  his  soft 
head  from  the  official  shell,  and  the  terrible  lurking  crab  was 
down  upon  him.  Politian  had  used  the  freedom  of  a  friend, 
and  pleasantly,  in  the  form  of  a  Latin  epigram,  corrected  the 
mistake  of  Scala  in  making  the  culex  (an  insect  too  well  known 
on  the  banks  of  the  Arno)  of  the  inferior  or  feminine  gender. 
Scala  replied  by  a  bad  joke,  in  suitable  Latin  verses,  referring 
to  Politian’s  unsuccessful  suit.  Better  and  better.  Politian 
found  the  verses  very  pretty  and  highly  facetious  :  the  more 
was  the  pity  that  they  were  seriously  incorrect,  and  inasmuch 
as  Scala  had  alleged  that  he  had  written  them  in  imitation 
of  a  Greek  epigram,  Politian,  being  on  such  friendly  terms, 
would  enclose  a  Greek  epigram  of  his  own,  on  the  same  inter¬ 
esting  insect  —  not,  we  may  presume,  out  of  any  wish  to  hum¬ 
ble  Scala,  but  rather  to  instruct  him  ;  said  epigram  containing 
a  lively  conceit  about  Venus,  Cupid,  and  the  culex,  of  a  kind 
much  tasted  at  that  period,  founded  partly  on  the  zoological 
fact,  that  the  gnat,  like  Venus,  was  born  from  the  waters. 
Scala,  in  reply,  begged  to  say  that  his  verses  were  never 
intended  for  a  scholar  with  such  delicate  olfactories  as 
J^olitian,  nearest  of  ail  living  men  to  the  perfection  of  the 
ancients,  and  of  a  taste  so  fastidious  that  sturgeon  itself 
must  seem  insipid  to  him ;  defended  his  own  verses,  never¬ 
theless,  though  indeed  they  were  v/ritten  hastily,  without  cor¬ 
rection,  and  intended  as  an  agreeable  distraction  during  the 
summer  heat  to  himself  and  such  friends  as  were  satisfied 
with  mediocrity,  he,  Scala,  not  being  like  some  other  people, 
who  courted  publicity  through  the  booksellers.  For  the  rest, 


S4 


ROMOLA. 


he  had  barely  enough  Greek  to  make  out  the  sense  of  the 
epigram  so  graciously  sent  him,  to  say  nothing  of  tasting  its 
elegances;  but  —  the  epigram  was  Politian’s  :  what  more  need 
be  said  ?  Still,  by  way  of  postscript,  he  feared  that  his  in¬ 
comparable  friend’s  comparison  of  the  gnat  to  Venus,  on  account 
of  its  origin  from  the  waters,  was  in  many  ways  ticklish. 
On  the  one  hand,  Venus  might  be  offended ;  and  on  the  other, 
unless  the  poet  intended  an  allusion  to  the  doctrine  of  Thales, 
that  cold  and  damp  origin  seemed  doubtful  to  Scala  in  the  case 
of  a  creature  so  fond  of  warmth ;  a  fish  were  perhaps  the  better 
comparison,  or,  when  the  power  of  flying  was  in  question,  an 
eagle,  or  indeed,  when  the  darkness  was  taken  into  considera¬ 
tion,  a  bat  or  an  owl  were  a  less  obscure  and  more  apposite 
parallel,  etc.,  etc.  ■  Here  was  a  great  opportunity  for  Politian. 
He  was  not  aware,  he  wrote,  that  when  he  had  Scala’s  verses 
placed  before  him,  there  was  any  question  of  sturgeon,  but 
rather  of  frogs  and  gudgeons  :  made  short  work  with  Scala’s 
defence  of  his  own  Latin,  and  mangled  him  terribly  on  the  score 
of  the  stupid  criticisms  he  had  ventured  on  the  Greek  epigram 
kindly  forwarded  to  him  as  a  model.  Wretched  cavils,  indeed! 
for  as  to  the  damp  origin  of  the  gnat,  there  was  the  authority 
of  Virgil  himself,  who  had  called  it  the  ‘‘  alumnus  of  the 
waters ;  ”  and  as  to  what  his  dear  dull  friend  had  to  say  about 
the  fish,  the  eagle,  and  the  rest,  it  was  “  nihil  ad  rem  ;  ”  for 
because  the  eagle  could  fly  higher,  it  by  no  means  followed 
that  the  gnat  could  not  fly  at  all,  etc.,  etc.  He  was  ashamed, 
however,  to  dwell  on  such,  trivialities,  and  thus  to  swell  a  gnat 
into  an  elephant ;  but,  for  his  own  part,  would  only  add  that 
he  had  nothing  deceitful  or  double  about  him,  neither  was 
he  to  be  caught  when  present  by  the  false  blandishments  of 
those  who  slandered  him  in  his  absence,  agreeing  rather  with  a 
Homeric  sentiment  on  that  head  —  which  furnished  a  Greek 
quotation  to  serve  as  powder  to  his  bullet. 

The  quarrel  could  not  end  there.  The  logic  could  hardly 
get  worse,  but  the  secretary  got  more  pompously  self-asserting, 
and  the  scholarly  poet’s  temper  more  and  more  venomous. 
Politian  had  been  generously  willing  to  hold  up  a  mirror,  by 
which  the  too-inflated  secretary,  beholding  his  own  likeness, 


A  LEARNED  SQUABBLE. 


85 


might  oe  induced  to  cease  setting  up  his  ignorant  defences  of 
bad  Latin  against  ancient  authorities  whom  the  consent  of 
centuries  had  placed  beyond  question  —  unless,  indeed,  he 
had  designed  to  sink  in  literature  in  proportion  as  he  rose  in 
honors,  that  by  a  sort  of  compensation  men  of  letters  might 
feel  themselves  his  equals.  In  return,  Politian  was  begged  to 
examine  Scala’s  writings :  nowhere  would  he  find  a  more  de¬ 
vout  admiration  of  antiquity.  The  secretary  was  ashamed  of 
the  age  in  which  he  lived,  and  blushed  for  it.  So7m,  indeed, 
there  were  who  wanted  to  have  their  own  works  praised  and 
exalted  to  a  level  with  the  divine  monuments  of  antiquity ; 
but  he,  Scala,  could  not  oblige  them.  And  as  to  the  honors 
which  were  offensive  to  the  envious,  they  had  been  well  earned : 
witness  his  whole  life  since  he  came  in  penury  to  Florence. 
The  elegant  scholar,  in  reply,  was  not  surprised  that  Scala 
found  the  Age  distasteful  to  him,  since  he  himself  was  so  dis¬ 
tasteful  to  the  Age ;  nay,  it  was  with  perfect  accuracy  that  he, 
the  elegant  scholar,  had  called  Scala  a  branny  monster,  inas¬ 
much  as  he  was  formed  from  the  offscourings  of  monsters, 
born  amidst  the  refuse  of  a  mill,  and  eminently  worthy  the 
long-eared  office  of  turning  the  paternal  millstones  (in  'pistrini 
307'dibus  natus  et  quidem  qnstrino  dignissimus)  ! 

It  was  not  without  reference  to  Tito’s  appointed  visit  that 
the  papers  containing  this  correspondence  were  brought  out 
to-day.  Here  was  a  new  Greek  scholar  whose  accomplishments 
were  to  be  tested ;  and  on  nothing  did  Scala  more  desire  a 
dispassionate  opinion  from  persons  of  superior  knowledge 
than  on  that  Greek  epigram  of  Politian’s.  After  sufficient  intro¬ 
ductory  talk  concerning  Tito’s  travels,  after  a  survey  and  dis¬ 
cussion  of  the  gems,  and  an  easy  passage  from  the  mention  of 
the  lamented  Lorenzo’s  eagerness  in  collecting  such  specimens 
of  ancient  art  to  the  subject  of  classical  tastes  and  studies  in 
general,  and  their  present  condition  in  Florence,  it  was  inevi¬ 
table  to  mention  Politian,  a  man  of  eminent  ability  indeed, 
but  a  little  too  arrogant  —  assuming  to  be  a  Hercules,  whose 
office  it  was  to  destroy  all  the  literary  monstrosities  of  the 
age,  and  writing  letters  to  his  elders  without  signing  them,  as 
if  they  were  miraculous  revelations  that  could  only  have  one 


86 


ROMOLA. 


source.  And  after  all,  were  not  his  own  criticisms  often  ques¬ 
tionable  and  his  tastes  perverse  ?  He  was  fond  of  saying 
pungent  things  about  the  men  who  thought  they  wrote  like 
Cicero  because  they  ended  every  sentence  with  “esse  videtur:” 
but  while  he  was  boasting  of  his  freedom  from  servile  imita¬ 
tion,  did  he  not  fall  into  the  other  extreme,  running  after 
strange  words  and  affected  phrases  ?  Even  in  his  much- 
belauded  “Miscellanea,”  was  every  point  tenable?  And  Tit.), 
who  had  just  been  looking  into  the  “  Miscellanea,”  found  ■  p 
much  to  say  that  was  agreeable  to  the  secretary  —  he  would 
have  done  so  from  the  mere  disposition  to  please,  without  J  ar- 
ther  motive  —  that  he  showed  himself  quite  worthy  to  be  mEkde 
a  judge  in  the  notable  correspondence  concerning  the  cuUx. 
Here  was  the  Greek  epigram  which  Politian  had  doubtless 
thought  the  finest  in  the  world,  though  he  had  pretended  to 
believe  that  the  “  transmarini,”  the  Greeks  themselves,  would 
make  light  of  it :  had  he  not  been  unintentionally  speaking  the 
truth  in  his  false  modesty  ? 

Tito  was  ready,  and  scarified  the  epigram  to  Scala’s  content. 
0  wise  young  judge !  He  could  doubtless  appreciate  satire 
even  in  the  vulgar  tongue,  and  Scala  —  who,  excellent  man, 
not  seeking  publicity  through  the  booksellers,  was  never  un¬ 
provided  with  “  hasty  uncorrected  trifles,”  as  a  sort  of  sherbet 
for  a  visitor  on  a  hot  day,  or,  if  the  weather  were  cold,  why 
then  as  a  cordial  —  had  a  few  little  matters  in  the  shape  of 
Sonnets,  turning  on  well-known  foibles  of  Politian’s,  which  he 
would  not  like  to  go  any  farther,  but  which  would,  perhaps, 
amuse  the  company. 

Enough :  Tito  took  his  leave  under  an  urgent  invitation  to 
come  again.  His  gems  were  interesting;  especially  the  agate, 
with  the  lusus  naturce  in  it  —  a  most  wonderful  semblance  of 
Cupid  riding  on  the  lion;  and  the  “Jew’s  stone,”  with  the 
lion-headed  serpent  enchased  in  it ;  both  of  which  the  secretary 
agreed  to  buy  —  the  latter  as  a  reinforcement  of  his  preven¬ 
tives  against  the  gout,  which  gave  him  such  severe  twinges 
that  it  was  plain  enough  how  intolerable  it  would  be  if  he 
were  not  well  supplied  with  rings  of  rare  virtue,  and  with 
an  amulet  worn  close  under  the  right  breast.  But  Tito  was 


A  FACE  IN  THE  CROWD. 


87 


assured  that  he  himself  was  more  interesting  than  his  gems. 
He  had  won  his  way  to  the  Scala  l^alace  by  the  recommenda¬ 
tion  of  Bardo  de’  Bardi,  who,  to  be  sure,  was  Scala’s  old  ac-. 
quaintance  and  a  w’ortby  scholar,  in  spite  of  his  overvaluing 
himself  a  little  (a  frequent  foible  in  the  secretary’s  friends) ; 
but  he  must  come  again  on  the  ground  of  his  own  manifest 
accomplishments. 

The  interview  could  hardly  have  ended  more  auspiciously 
for  Tito,  and  as  he  walked  out  at  the  Porta  Pinti  that  he 
might  laugh  a  little  at  his  ease  over  the  affair  of  the  culex,  he 
felt  that  Fortune  could  hardly  mean  to  turn  her  back  on  him 
again  at  present,  since  she  had  taken  him  by  the  hand  in  this 
decided  way. 

* 

»  — ■ 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

A  FACE  IN  THE  CROWD. 

It  is  easy  to  northern  people  to  rise  early  on  Midsummer 
morning,  to  see  the  dew  on  the  grassy  edge  of  the  dusty  path¬ 
way,  to  notice  the  fresh  shoots  among  the  darker  green  of  the 
oak  and  fir  in  the  coppice,  and  to  look  over  the  gate  at  the 
shorn  meadow,  without  recollecting  that  it  is  the  Nativity  of 
St.  John  the  Baptist. 

Not  so  to  the  Florentine  —  still  less  to  the  Florentine  of 
the  fifteenth  century :  to  him  on  that  particular  morning  the 
brightness  of  the  eastern  sun  on  the  Arno  had  something 
special  in  it;  the  ringing  of  the  bells  was  articulate,  and 
declared  it  to  be  the  great  summer  festival  of  Florence,  the 
day  of  San  Giovanni. 

San  Giovanni  had  been  the  patron  saint  of  Florence  for  at 
least  eight  hundred  years — ever  since  the  time  when  the 
Lombard  Queen  Theodolinda  had  commanded  her  subjects  to 
do  him  peculiar  honor;  nay,  says  old  Villani,  to  the  best  of 
his  knowledge,  ever  since  the  days  of  Constantine  the  Great 
and  Pope  Sylvester,  wlieu  the  Florentines  deposed  their  idol 


88 


EOMOLA. 


Mars,  whom  they  were  nevertheless  careful  not  to  treat  with 
contumely ;  for  while  they  consecrated  their  beautiful  and 
noble  temple  to  the  honor  of  God  and  of  the  “  Beato  Messere 
Santo  Giovanni/’  they  placed  old  Mars  respectfully  on  a  high 
tower  near  the  Biver  Arno,  finding  in  certain  ancient  memo¬ 
rials  that  he  had  been  elected  as  their  tutelar  deity  under  such 
astral  influences  that  if  he  were  broken,  or  otherwise  treated 
with  indignity,  the  city  would  suffer  great  damage  and  muta¬ 
tion.  But  in  the  fifteenth  century  that  discreet  regard  to  the 
feelings  of  the  Man-destroyer  had  long  vanished :  the  god  of 
the  spear  and  shield  had  ceased  to  frown  by  the  side  of  the 
Arno,  and  the  defences  of  the  Bepublic  were  held  to  lie  in  its 
craft  and  its  coffers.  For  spear  and  shield  could  be  hired  by 
gold  florins,  and  on  the  gold  florins  there  had  always  been  the 
image  of  San  Giovanni.  ■ 

Much  good  had  come  to  Florence  since  the  dim  time  of 
struggle  between  the  old  patron  and  the  new :  some  quarrel¬ 
ling  and  bloodshed,  doubtless,  between  Guelf  and  Ghibelline, 
between  Black  and  White,  between  orthodox  sons  of  the 
Church  and  heretic  Paterini ;  some  floods,  famine,  and  pesti¬ 
lence  5  but  still  much  wealth  and  glory.  Florence  had  achieved 
conquests  over  walled  cities  once  mightier  than  itself,  and 
especially  over  hated  Pisa,  whose  marble  buildings  were  too 
high  and  beautiful,  whose  masts  were  too  much  honored  on 
Greek  and  Italian  coasts.  The  name  of  Florence  had  been 
growing  prouder  and  prouder  in  all  the  courts  of  Europe,  nay, 
in  Africa  itself,  on  the  strength  of  purest  gold  coinage,  finest 
dyes  and  textures,  pre-eminent  scholarship  and  poetic  genius, 
and  wits  of  the  most  serviceable  sort  for  statesmanship  and 
banking:  it  was  a  name  so  omnipresent  that  a  Pope  with  a 
turn  for  epigram  had  called  Florentines  ‘‘the  fifth  element.” 
And  for  this  high  destiny,  though  it  might  partly  depend  on 
the  stars  and  Madonna  dell’  Impruneta,  and  certainly  de¬ 
pended  on  other  higher  Powers  less  often  named,  the  praise 
was  greatly  due  to  San  Giovanni,  whose  image  was  on  the 
fair  gold  florins. 

Therefore  it  was  fitting  that  the  day  of  San  Giovanni  —  that 
ancient  Church  festival  already  venerable  in  the  days  of  Sk 


A  FACE  IN  THE  CROWD. 


89 


Augustine  —  should  be  a  day  of  peculiar  rejoicing  to  Florence, 
and  should  be  ushered  in  by  a  vigil  duly  kept  in  strict  old 
Florentine  fashion,  with  much  dancing,  with  much  street  jest¬ 
ing,  and  perhaps  with  not  a  little  stone-throwing  and  window¬ 
breaking,  but  emphatically  with  certain  street  sights  such  as 
could  only  be  provided  by  a  city  which  held  in  its  service  a 
clever  Cecca,  engineer  and  architect,  valuable  alike  in  sieges 
and  in  shows.  By  the  help  of  Cecca,  the  very  saints,  sur¬ 
rounded  with  their  almond-shaped  glory,  and  floating  on  clouds 
with  their  joyous  companionship  of  winged  cherubs,  even  as 
they  may  be  seen  to  this  day  in  the  pictures  of  Perugino, 
seemed,  on  the  eve  of  San  Giovanni,  to  have  brought  their 
piece  of  the  heavens  down  into  the  narrow  streets,  and  to  pass 
slowly  through  them  ;  and,  more  wonderful  still,  saints  of  gi¬ 
gantic  size,  with  attendant  angels,  might  be  seen,  not  seated, 
but  moving  in  a  slow  mysterious  manner  along  the  streets,  like 
a  procession  of  colossal  figures  come  down  from  the  high  domes 
and  tribunes  of  the  churches.  The  clouds  were  made  of  good 
woven  stuff,  the  saints  and  cherubs  were  unglorified  mortals 
supported  by  firm  bars,  and  those  mysterious  giants  were 
really  men  of  very  steady  brain,  balancing  themselves  on 
stilts,  and  enlarged,  like  Greek  tragedians,  by  huge  masks 
and  stuffed  shoulders ;  but  he  was  a  miserably  unimaginative 
Florentine  who  thought  only  of  that  —  nay,  somewhat  impious, 
for  in  the  images  of  sacred  things  was  there  not  some  of  the 
virtue  of  sacred  things  themselves  ?  And  if,  after  that,  there 
came  a  company  of  merry  black  demons  well-armed  with  claws 
and  thongs,  and  other  implements  of  sport,  ready  to  perform 
impromptu  farces  of  bastinadoing  and  clothes-tearing,  why, 
that  was  the  demons’  way  of  keeping  a  vigil,  and  the}^,  too, 
might  have  descended  from  the  domes  and  the  tribunes.  The 
Tuscan  mind  slipped  from  the  devout  to  the  burlesque  as 
readily  as  water  round  an  angle ;  and  the  saints  had  already 
had  their  turn,  had  gone  their  way,  and  made  their  due  pause 
before  the  gates  of  San  Giovanni,  to  do  him  honor  on  the  eve 
of  his  festa.  And  on  the  morrow,  the  great  day  thus  ushered 
in,  it  was  fitting  that  the  tributary  symbols  paid  to  Florence 
by  all  its  dependent  cities,  districts,  and  villages,  whether 


90 


ROMOLA. 


conquered,  protected,  or  of  immemorial  possession,  should  be 
offered  at  the  shrine  of  San  Giovanni  in  the  old  octagonal 
church,  once  the  cathedral,  and  now  the  baptistery,  where 
every  Florentine  had  had  the  sign  of  the  Cross  made  with 
the  anointing  chrism  on  his  brow ;  that  all  the  city,  from  the 
white-haired  man  to  the  stripling,  and  from  the  matron  to 
the  lisping  child,  should  be  clothed  in  its  best  to  do  honor 
to  the  great  day,  and  see  the  great  sight;  and  that  again, 
when  the  sun  was  sloping  and  the  streets  were  cool,  there 
should  be  the  glorious  race  or  Corso,  when  the  unsaddled 
horses,  clothed  in  rich  trappings,  should  run  right  across  the 
city,  from  the  Porta  al  Prato  on  the  northwest,  through  the 
IMercato  Vecchio,  to  the  Porta  Santa  Croce  on  the  southeast, 
where  the  richest  of  Palii,  or  velvet  and  brocade  banners  with 
silk  linings  and  fringe  of  gold,  such  as  became  a  city  that  half 
clothed  the  well-dressed  world,  were  mounted  on  a  triumphal 
car  awaiting  the  winner  or  winner’s  owner. 

And  thereafter  followed  more  dancing;  nay,  through  the 
whole  day,  says  an  old  chronicler  at  the  beginning  of  that 
century,  there  were  weddings  and  the  grandest  gatherings, 
with  so  much  piping,  music  and  song,  with  balls  and  feasts 
and  gladness  and  ornament,  that  this  earth  might  have  been 
mistaken  for  Paradise ! 

In  this  year  of  1492  it  was,  perhaps,  a  little  less  easy  to 
make  that  mistake.  Lorenzo  the  magnificent  and  subtle  was 
dead,  and  an  arrogant,  incautious  Piero  was  come  in  his  room : 
an  evil  change  for  Florence,  unless,  indeed,  the  wise  horse  pre¬ 
fers  the  bad  rider,  as  more  easily  thrown  from  the  saddle ;  and 
already  the  regrets  for  Lorenzo  were  getting  less  predominant 
over  the  murmured  desire  for  government  on  a  broader  basis, 
in  which  corruption  might  be  arrested,  and  there  might  be 
that  free  play  for  everybody’s  jealousy  and  ambition  which 
made  the  ideal  liberty  of  the  good  old  quarrelsome,  struggling 
times,  when  Florence  raised  her  great  buildings,  reared  her 
own  soldiers,  drove  out  would-be  tyrants  at  the  sword’s  point, 
and  was  proud  to  keep  faith  at  her  own  loss.  Lorenzo  was 
dead.  Pope  Innocent  was  dying,  and  a  troublesome  Neapolitan 
succession,  with  an  intrig-uing,  ambitious  Milan,  might  set 


A  FACE  IN  THE  CROWD. 


91 


Italy  by  the  ears  before  long :  the  times  were  likely  to  be 
difficult.  Still,  there  was  all  the  more  reason  that  the  Eepublio 
should  keep  its  religious  festivals. 

And  Midsummer  morning,  in  this  year  1492,  was  not  less 
bright  than  usual.  It  was  betimes  in  the  morning  that  the 
symbolic  offerings  to  be  carried  in  grand  procession  were  all 
assembled  at  their  starting-point  in  the  Piazza  della  Signon>i 
—  that  famous  Piazza,  where  stood  then,  and  stand  now,  the 
massive  tur reted  Palace  of  the  People,  called  the  Palazzo  Vec- 
chio,  and  the  spacious  Loggia,  built  by  Orcagna  —  the  scene  of 
all  grand  State  ceremonial.  The  sky  made  the  fairest  blue 
tent,  and  under  it  the  bells  swung  so  vigorously  that  every 
evil  spirit  with  sense  enough  to  be  formidable  must  long  sinco 
have  taken  his  flight ;  windows  and  terraced  roofs  were  alive 
with  human  faces;  sombre  stone  houses  were  bright  with 
hanging  draperies ;  the  boldly  soaring  palace  tower,  the  yet 
older  square  tower  of  the  Bargello,  and  the  spire  of  the  neigh¬ 
boring  Badia,  seemed  to  keep  watch  above ;  and  below,  on  the 
broad  polygonal  flags  of  the  piazza,  was  the  glorious  show  of 
banners,  and  horses  with  rich  trappings,  and  gigantic  ceri,  or 
tapers,  that  were  fitly  called  towers  —  strangely  aggrandized 
descendants  of  those  torches  by  whose  faint  light  the  Church 
worshipped  in  the  Catacombs.  Betimes  in  the  morning  all 
processions  had  need  to  move  under  the  Midsummer  sky  of 
Florence,  where  the  shelter  of  the  narrow  streets  must  every 
now  and  then  be  exchanged  for  the  glare  of  wide  spaces ;  and 
the  sun  would  be  high  up  in  the  heavens  before  the  long  pomp 
had  ended  its  pilgrimage  in  the  Piazza  di  San  Giovanni. 

But  here,  where  the  procession  was  to  pause,  the  magnifi¬ 
cent  city,  with  its  ingenious  Cecca,  had  provided  another  tent 
than  the  sky ;  for  the  whole  of  the  Piazza  del  Duomo,  from 
the  octagonal  baptistery  in  the  centre  to  the  fa9ade  of  the  ca¬ 
thedral  and  the  walls  of  the  houses  on  the  other  sides  of  the 
quadrangle,  was  covered,  at  the  height  of  forty  feet  or  more, 
with  blue  drapery,  adorned  with  well-stitched  yellow  lilies  and 
the  familiar  coats  of  arms,  while  sheaves  of  many-colored  ban¬ 
ners  drooped  at  fit  angles  under  this  superincumbent  blue — • 
a  gorgeous  rainbow-lit  shelter  to  the  waiting  spectators  who 


'2 


KOMOLA. 


•eaned  from  the  windows,  and  made  a  narrow  border  on  the 
pavement,  and  wished  for  the  coming  of  the  show. 

One  of  these  spectators  was  Tito  Meleina.  Bright,  in  the 
midst  of  brightness,  he  sat  at  the  window  of  the  room  above 
Nello’s  shop,  his  right  elbow  resting  on  the  red  drapery  hang¬ 
ing  from  the  window-sill,  and  his  head  supported  in  a  back¬ 
ward  position  by  the  right  hand,  which  pressed  the  curls 
against  his  ear.  His  face  wore  that  bland  liveliness,  as  far 
removed  from  excitability  as  from  heaviness  or  gloom,  which 
marks  the  companion  popular  alike  among  men  and  women  — 
the  companion  who  is  never  obtrusive  or  noisy  from  uneasy 
vanity  or  excessive  animal  spirits,  and  whose  brow  is  never 
contracted  by  resentment  or  indignation.  He  showed  no  other 
change  from  the  two  months  and  more  that  had  passed  since 
his  first  appearance  in  the  weather-stained  tunic  and  hose,  than 
that  added  radiance  of  good  fortune,  which  is  like  the  just 
perceptible  perfecting  of  a  flower  after  it  has  drunk  a  morn¬ 
ing’s  sunbeams.  Close  behind  him,  ensconced  in  the  narrow 
angle  between  his  chair  and  the  window-frame,  stood  the  slim 
figure  of  Nello  in  holiday  suit,  and  at  his  left  the  younger 
Cennini  —  Pietro,  the  erudite  corrector  of  proof-sheets,  not 
Domenico  the  practical.  Tito  was  looking  alternately  down 
on  the  scene  below,  and  upward  at  the  varied  knot  of  gazers 
and  talkers  immediately  around  him,  some  of  whom  had  come 
in  after  witnessing  the  commencement  of  the  procession  in  the 
Piazza  della  Signoria.  Piero  di  Cosimo  was  raising  a  laugh 
among  them  by  his  grimaces  and  anathemas  at  the  noise  of 
the  bells,  against  which  no  kind  of  ear-stuffing  was  a  sufficient 
barricade,  since  the  more  he  stuffed  his  ears  the  more  he  felt 
the  vibration  of  his  skull ;  and  declaring  that  he  would  bury 
himself  in  the  most  solitary  spot  of  the  Valdarno  on  a  festa, 
if  he  were  not  condemned,  as  a  painter,  to  lie  in  wait  for  the 
secrets  of  color  that  were  sometimes  to  be  caught  from  the 
floating  of  banners  and  the  chance  grouping  of  the  multitude. 

Tito  had  just  turned  his  laughing  face  away  from  the  whim¬ 
sical  painter  to  look  down  at  the  small  drama  going  on  among 
the  checkered  border  of  spectators,  when  at  the  angle  of  the 
marble  steps  in  front  of  the  Duomo,  nearly  opposite  Nello’s 


A  FACE  IN  THE  CROWD. 


93 


sRop,  lie  saw  a  man’s  face  upturned  towards  him,  and  fixing 
on  him  a  gaze  that  seemed  to  have  more  meaning  in  it  than 
the  ordinary  passing  observation  of  a  stranger.  It  was  a  face 
with  tonsured  head,  that  rose  above  the  black  mantle  and 
white  tunic  of  a  Dominican  friar  —  a  very  common  sight  in 
Florence ;  but  the  glance  had  something  peculiar  in  it  for 
Tito.  There  was  a  faint  suggestion  in  it,  certainly  not  of  an 
unpleasant  kind.  Yet  what  pleasant  association  had  he  ever 
had  with  monks  ?  None.  The  glance  and  the  suggestion 
hardly  took  longer  than  a  flash  of  lightning. 

“Nello!”  said  Tito,  hastily,  but  immediately  added,  in  a 
tone  of  disappointment,  “Ah,  he  has  turned  round.  It  was 
that  tall,  thin  friar  who  is  going  up  the  steps.  I  wanted  you 
to  tell  me  if  you  knew  aught  of  him  ?  ” 

“  One  of  the  Frati  Predicatori,”  said  Nello,  carelessly ;  “  you 
don’t  expect  me  to  know  the  private  history  of  the  crows.” 

“  I  seem  to  remember  something  about  his  face,”  said  Tito. 
“  It  is  an  uncommon  face.” 

“  What  ?  you  thought  it  might  be  our  Fra  Girolamo  ?  Too 
tall ;  and  he  never  shows  himself  in  that  chance  way.” 

“  Besides,  that  loud-barking  ‘  hound  of  the  Lord  ’  ^  is  not  in 
Florence  just  now,”  said  Francesco  Cei,  the  popular  poet ;  “  he 
has  taken  Piero  de’  Medici’s  hint,  to  carry  his  railing  proph¬ 
ecies  on  a  journey  for  a  while.” 

“  The  Frate  neither  rails  nor  prophesies  against  any  man,” 
said  a  middle-aged  personage  seated  at  the  other  corner  of  the 
window  ;  “  he  only  prophesies  against  vice.  If  you  think  that 
an  attack  on  your  poems,  Francesco,  it  is  not  the  Frate’s 
fault.” 

“  Ah,  he ’s  gone  into  the  Duomo  now,”  said  Tito,  who  had 
watched  the  figure  eagerly.  “  No,  I  was  not  under  that  mis¬ 
take,  Nello.  Your  Fra  Girolamo  has  a  high  nose  and  a  large 
under-lip.  I  saw  him  once  —  he  is  not  handsome ;  but  this 
man  —  ” 

“  Truce  to  your  descriptions  !  ”  said  Cennini.  “Hark !  see  I 

^  A  play  on  the  name  of  the  Dominicans  (Domini  Canes)  which  was  ac¬ 
cepted  by  themselves,  and  which  is  pictorially  represented  in  a  fresco  painted 
i„i-  tlisin  by  Simone  Memmi. 


94 


ROMOLA. 


Here  come  the  horsemen  and  the  banners.  That  standard,” 
he  continued,  laying  his  hand  familiarly  on  Tito’s  shoulder  — ■ 
“  that  carried  on  the  horse  with  white  trappings  —  that  with 
the  red  eagle  holding  the  green  dragon  between  his  talons, 
and  the  red  lily  over  the  eagle  —  is  the  gonfalon  of  the  Guelf 
party,  and  those  cavaliers  close  round  it  are  the  chief  officei’s 
of  the  Guelf  party.  That  is  one  of  onr  proudest  banners, 
grumble  as  we  may  ;  it  means  the  triumph  of  the  Guelfs, 
which  means  the  triumph  of  Florentine  will,  which  means 
triumph  of  the  popolani.” 

“  Nay,  go  on,  Cenuini,”  said  the  middle-aged  man,  seated  at 
the  window,  which  means  triumph  of  the  fat  popolani  over 
the  lean,  which  again  means  triumph  of  the  fattest  popolano 
over  those  who  are  less  fat.” 

“  Cronaca,  you  are  becoming  sententious,”  said  the  printer ; 
“  Fra  Girolamo’s  preaching  will  spoil  you,  and  make  you  take 
life  by  the  wrong  handle.  Trust  me,  your  cornices  will  lose 
half  their  beauty  if  you  begin  to  mingle  bitterness  with  them  ; 
that  is  the  maniera  Tedesca  which  you  used  to  declaim  against 
when  you  came  from  Rome.  The  next  palace  you  build  we 
shall  see  you  trying  to  put  the  Frate’s  doctrine  into  stone.” 

That  is  a  goodly  show  of  eavaliers,”  said  Tito,  who 
had  learned  by  this  time  the  best  way  to  please  Florentines ; 
“  but  are  there  not  strangers  among  them  ?  I  see  foreign 
costumes.” 

“  Assuredly,”  said  Cennini ;  “  you  see  there  the  Orators 
from  France,  Milan,  and  Venice,  and  behind  them  are  English 
and  German  nobles ;  for  it  is  customary  that  all  foreign  visit¬ 
ors  of  distinction  pay  their  tribute  to  San  Giovanni  in  the 
train  of  that  gonfalon.  For  my  part,  I  think  our  Florentine 
cavaliers  sit  their  horses  as  well  as  any  of  those  cut-and-thrust 
northerners,  whose  wits  lie  in  their  heels  and  saddles ;  and  for 
yon  Venetian,  I  fancy  he  would  feel  himself  more  at  ease  on 
the  back  of  a  dolphin.  We  ought  to  know  something  of 
horsemanship,  for  we  excel  all  Italy  in  the  sports  of  the  Giostra, 
and  the  money  we  spend  on  them.  But  you  will  see  a  finer 
show  of  our  chief  men  by-and-by,  Melema;  my  brother  himself 
will  be  among  the  officers  of  the  Zecca.” 


A  FACE  IN  THE  CROWD. 


95 


^<Tlie  banners  are  the  better  sight/’  said  Piero  di  Cosimo, 
forgetting  the  noise  in  his  delight  at  the  winding  stream  of 
color  as  the  •  tributary  standards  advanced  round  the  piazza. 
“  The  Florentine  men  are  so-so ;  they  make  but  a  sorry  show 
at  this  distance  with  their  patch  of  sallow  flesh-tint  above  the 
black  garments;  but  those  banners  with  their  velvet,  and  satin, 
and  minever,  and  brocade,  and  their  endless  play  of  delicat© 
light  and  shadow!  —  Va!  your  human  talk  and  doings  are  tt 
tame  jest ;  the  only  passionate  life  is  in  form  and  color.” 

“  Ay,  Piero,  if  Satanasso  could  paint,  thou  wouldst  sell  thy 
soul  to  learn  his  secrets,”  said  Nello.  “But  there  is  little 
likelihood  of  it,  seeing  the  blessed  angels  themselves  are  such 
poor  hands  at  chiaroscuro,  if  one  may  judge  from  their  capch 
d' opera,  the  Madonna  Nunziata.” 

“  There  go  the  banners  of  Pisa  and  Arezzo,”  said  Cennini. 
“  Ay,  Messer  Pisano,  it  is  no  use  for  you  to  look  sullen ;  you 
may  as  well  carry  your  banner  to  our  San  Giovanni  with  a 
good  grace.  ‘  Pisans  false,  Florentines  blind  ’  —  the  second 
half  of  that  proverb  will  hold  no  longer.  There  come  the 
ensigns  of  our  subject  towns  and  signories,  Melema;  they  will 
all  be  suspended  in  San  Giovanni  until  this  day  next  year,  when 
they  will  give  place  to  new  ones.” 

“  They  are  a  fair  sight,”  said  Tito ;  “  and  San  Giovanni  will 
surely  be  as  weJ.1  satisfied  with  that  produce  of  Italian  looms 
as  Minerva  with  her  peplos,  especially  as  he  contents  himself 
with  so  little  drapery.  But  my  eyes  are  less  delighted  with 
those  whirling  towers,  which  would  soon  make  me  fall  from 
the  window  in  sympathetic  vertigo.” 

The  “towers”  of  which  Tito  spoke  weie  a  part  of  the  pro¬ 
cession  esteemed  very  glorious  by  the  Florentine  populace;  and 
being  perhaps  chiefly  a  kind  of  hyperbole  for  the  all-efficacious 
wax  taper,  were  also  called  ceri.  But  inasmuch  as  hyperbole 
is  impracticable  in  a  real  and  literal  fashion,  these  gigantic 
ceri,  some  of  them  so  large  as  to  be  of  necessity  carried  on 
wheels,  were  not  solid  but  hollow,  and  had  their  surface  made 
not  solely  of  wax,  but  of  wood  and  pasteboard,  gilded,  carved, 
and  painted,  as  real  sacred  tapers  often  are,  with  successive 
circles  of  figures  —  warriors  on  horseback,  foot-soldiers  with 


6 


ROMOLA. 


tance  and  shield,  dancing  maidens,  animals,  trees  and  fruits, 
juid  in  fine,  says  the  old  chronicler,  “  all  things  that  could 
fielight  the  eye  and  the  heart ;  ”  the  hollowness  having  the 
further  advantage  that  men  could  stand  inside  these  hyperbolic 
Capers  and  whirl  them  continually,  so  as  to  produce  a  phantas¬ 
magoric  effect,  which,  considering  the  towers  were  numerous, 
must  have  been  calculated  to  produce  dizziness  on  a  truly 
nagnificent  scale. 

Festilenza  /  ”  said  Piero  di  Cosimo,  moving  from  the  win 
iow,  “those  whirling  circles  one  above  the  other  are  worse 
than  the  jangling  of  all  the  bells.  Let  me  know  when  the  last 
taper  has  passed.” 

“Nay,  you  will  surely  like  to  be  called  when  the  contadini 
come  carrying  their  torches,”  said  Nello;  “you  would  not 
miss  the  country-folk  of  the  Mugello  and  the  Casentino,  of 
whom  your  favorite  Lionardo  would  make  a  hundred  grotesque 
sketches.” 

“No,”  said  Piero,  resolutely;  “I  will  see  nothing  till  the 
car  of  the  Zecca  comes.  I  have  seen  clowns  enough  holding 
tapers  aslant,  both  with  and  without  cowls,  to  last  me  for  my 
life.” 

“Here  it  comes,  then,  Piero  — the  car  of  the  Zecca,”  called 
out  Nello,  after  an  interval  during  which  towers  and  tapers 
in  a  descending  scale  of  size  had  been  making  their  slow 
transit. 

“  Fediddio  /  ”  exclaimed  Prancesco  Cei,  “  that  is  a  well- 
tanned  San  Giovanni !  some  sturdy  Eomagnole  beggar-man. 
I’ll  warrant.  Our  Signoria  plays  the  host  to  all  the  Jewish 
and  Christian  scum  that  every  other  city  shuts  its  gates  against, 
and  lets  them  fatten  on  us  like  St.  Anthony’s  swine.” 

The  car  of  the  Zecca,  or  Mint,  which  had  just  rolled  into 
sight,  was  originally  an  immense  wooden  tower  or  cero  adorned 
after  the  same  fashion  as  the  other  tributary  ceri,  mounted  on 
a  splendid  car,  and  drawn  by  two  mouse-colored  oxen,  whose 
mild  heads  looked  out  from  rich  trappings  bearing  the  arms  of 
the  Zecca.  But  the  latter  half  of  the  century  was  getting 
rather  ashamed  of  the  towers  with  their  circular  or  spiral 
paintings,  which  had  delighted  the  eyes  and  the  hearts  of 


A  FACE  IN  THE  CROWD. 


97 


the  other  half,  so  that  they  had  become  a  contemptuous 
proverb,  and  any  ill-painted  figure  looking,  as  will  sometimes 
happen  to  figures  in  the  best  ages  of  art,  as  if  it  had  been 
boned  for  a  pie,  was  called  a  fantoccio  da  cero,  a  tower-puppet ; 
consequently  improved  taste  with  Cecca  to  help  it,  had  devised 
for  the  magnificent  Zecca  a  triumphal  car  like  a  pyramidal 
catafalque,  with  ingenious  wheels  warranted  to  turn  all  corners 
easily.  Round  the  base  were  living  figures  of  saints  and  angels 
arrayed  in  sculpturesque  fashion ;  and  on  the  summit,  at  the 
height  of  thirty  feet,  well  bound  to  an  iron  rod  and  holding 
an  iron  cross  also  firmly  infixed,  stood  a  living  representative 
of  St.  John  the  Baptist,  with  arms  and  legs  bare,  a  garment 
of  tiger-skins  about  his  body,  and  a  golden  nimbus  fastened 
on  his  head  —  as  the  Precursor  was  wont  to  appear  in  the 
cloisters  and  churches,  not  having  yet  revealed  himself  to 
painters  as  the  brown  and  sturdy  boy  who  made  one  of  the 
Holy  Family.  For  where  could  the  image  of  the  patron  saint 
be  more  fitly  placed  than  on  the  symbol  of  the  Zecca  ?  Was 
not  the  royal  prerogative  of  coining  money  the  surest  token 
that  a  city  had  won  its  independence  ?  and  by  the  blessing  of 
San  Giovanni  this  ‘‘beautiful  sheepfold”  of  his  had  shown 
that  token  earliest  among  the  Italian  cities.  Nevertheless, 
the  annual  function  of  representing  the  patron  saint  was  not 
among  the  high  prizes  of  public  life ;  it  was  paid  for  with 
something  like  ten  shillings,  a  cake  weighing  fourteen  pounds, 
two  bottles  of  wine,  and  a  handsome  supply  of  light  eatables ; 
the  money  being  furnished  by  the  magnificent  Zecca,  and  the 
payment  in  kind  being  by  peculiar  “privilege”  presented  in 
a  basket  suspended  on  a  pole  from  an  upper  window  of  a 
private  house,  whereupon  the  eidolon  of  the  austere  saint  at 
once  invigorated  himself  with  a  reasonable  share  of  the  sweets 
and  wine,  threw  the  remnants  to  the  crowd,  and  embraced  the 
mighty  cake  securely  with  his  right  arm  through  the  remainder 
of  his  passage.  This  was  the  attitude  in  which  the  mimic  San 
Giovanni  presented  himself  as  the  tall  car  jerked  and  vibrated 
on  its  slow  way  round  the  piazza  to  the  northern  gate  of  the 
baptistery. 

“There  go  the  Masters  of  the  Zecca,  and  there  is  my  brother 

VOL.  V.  I 


98 


ROMOLA, 


—  you  see  him,  Melema  ?  ’’  cried  Cennini,  with  an  agreeable 
stirring  of  pride  at  showing  a  stranger  what  was  too  familiar 
to  be  remarkable  to  fellow-citizens.  ‘‘Behind  come  the  mem¬ 
bers  of  the  Corporation  of  Calimara,^  the  dealers  in  foreign 
cloth,  to  which  we  have  given  our  Florentine  finish ;  men  of 
ripe  years,  you  see,  who  were  matriculated  before  you  were 
born ;  and  then  comes  the  famous  Art  of  Money-changers.” 

“  Many  of  them  matriculated  also  to  the  noble  art  of  usury 
before  you  were  born,”  interrupted  Francesco  Cei,  “  as  you 
may  discern  by  a  certain  fitful  glare  of  the  eye  and  sharp 
curve  of  the  nose  which  manifest  their  descent  from  the  ancient 
harpies,  whose  portraits  you  saw  supporting  the  arms  of  the 
Zecca.  Shaking  off  old  prejudices  now,  such  a  procession  as 
that  of  some  four  hundred  passably  ugly  men  carrying  their 
tapers  in  open  daylight,  Diogenes-fashion,  as  if  they  were 
looking  for  a  lost  quattrino,  would  make  a  merry  spectacle 
for  the  Feast  of  Fools.” 

“  Blaspheme  not  against  the  usages  of  our  city,”  said  Pietro 
Cennini,  much  offended.  “  There  are  new  wits  who  think 
they  see  things  more  truly  because  they  stand  on  their  heads 
to  look  at  them,  like  tumblers  and  mountebanks,  instead  of 
keeping  the  attitude  of  rational  men.  Doubtless  it  makes 
little  difference  to  Maestro  Vaiano’s  monkeys  whether  they 
see  our  Donatello’s  statue  of  Judith  with  their  heads  or  their 
tails  uppermost.” 

“Your  solemnity  will  allow  some  quarter  to  playful  fancy, 
I  hope,”  said  Cei,  with  a  shrug,  “else  what  becomes  of  the 
ancients,  whose  example  you  scholars  are  bound  to  revere, 
Messer  Pietro  ?  Life  was  never  anything  but  a  perpetual 
see-saw  between  gravity  and  jest.” 

“Keep  your  jest  then  till  your  end  of  the  pole  is  upper¬ 
most,”  said  Cennini,  still  angry;  “and  that  is  not  when  the 
great  bond  of  our  Eepublic  is  expressing  itself  in  ancient  sym^ 
bols,  without  which  the  vulgar  would  be  conscious  of  nothing 
beyond  their  own  petty  wants  of  back  and  stomach,  and  never 
rise  to  the  sense  of  community  in  religion  and  law.  There 

^  “  Arte  di  Calimara,”  “  arte  ”  being,  in  thia  nae  of  it,  equivalent  to 
corporation. 


A  FACE  IN  THE  CROWD. 


99 


has  been  no  great  people  without  processions,  and  the  man 
who  thinks  himself  too  wise  to  be  moved  by  them  to  anything 
but  contempt,  is  like  the  puddle  that  was  proud  of  standing 
alone  while  the  river  rushed  by.” 

No  one  said  anything  after  this  indignant  burst  of  Cennini’s 
till  he  himself  spoke  again. 

“  Hark !  the  trumpets  of  the  Signoria :  now  comes  the  Iasi 
stage  of  the  show,  Melema.  That  is  our  Gonfaloniere  in  the 
middle,  in  the  starred  mantle,  with  the  sword  carried  before 
him.  Twenty  years  ago  we  used  to  see  our  foreign  Podestk, 
who  was  our  judge  in  civil  causes,  walking  on  his  right  hand ; 
but  our  Republic  has  been  over-doctored  by  clever  Medici.  That 
is  the  Proposto  ^  of  the  Priori  on  the  left ;  then  come  the  other 
seven  Priori ;  then  all  the  other  magistracies  and  officials  oi 
our  Republic.  You  see  your  patron  the  Segretario  ?  ” 

“There  is  Messer  Bernardo  del  Nero  also,”  said  Tito;  “his 
visage  is  a  fine  and  venerable  one,  though  it  has  worn  rather  a 
petrifying  look  towards  me.” 

“Ah,”  said  Nello,  “he  is  the  dragon  that  guards  the  rem¬ 
nant  of  old  Bardo’s  gold,  which,  I  fancy,  is  chiefly  that  virgin 
gold  that  falls  about  the  fair  Romola’s  head  and  shoulders ; 
eh,  my  Apollino  ?  ”  he  added,  patting  Titovs  head. 

Tito  had  the  youthful  grace  of  blushing,  but  he  had  also  the 
adroit  and  ready  speech  that  prevents  a  blush  from  looking 
like  embarrassment.  He  replied  at  once  — 

“  And  a  very  Pactolus  it  is  —  a  stream  with  golden  ripples. 
If  I  were  an  alchemist  —  ” 

He  was  saved  from  the  need  for  further  speech  by  the  sud¬ 
den  fortissimo  of  drums  and  trumpets  and  fifes,  bursting  into 
the  breadth  of  the  piazza  in  a  grand  storm  of  sound  —  a  roar, 
a  blast,  and  a  whistling,  well  befitting  a  city  famous  for  its 
musical  instruments,  and  reducing  the  members  of  the  closest 
group  to  a  state  of  deaf  isolation. 

During  this  interval  Nello  observed  Tito’s  fingers  moving 
in  recognition  of  some  one  in  the  crowd  below,  but  not  seeing 
the  direction  of  his  glance  he  failed  to  detect  the  object  of  this 
greeting  —  the  sweet  round  blue-eyed  face  under  a  white  hood 

^  Spokesman  or  Moderator. 


100 


ROMOLA. 


—  immediately  lost  in  the  narrow  border  of  heads,  where  there 
was  a  continual  eclipse  of  round  contadina  cheeks  by  the  harsh- 
lined  features  or  bent  shoulders  of  an  old  spadesman,  and  where 
profiles  turned  as  sharply  from  north  to  south  as  weathercocks 
under  a  shifting  wind. 

But  when  it  was  felt  that  the  show  was  ended  —  when  the 
twelve  prisoners  released  in  honor  of  the  day,  and  the  very 
barberi,  or  race-horses,  with  the  arms  of  their  owners  em¬ 
broidered  on  their  cloths,  had  followed  up  the  Signoria,  and 
been  duly  consecrated  to  San  Giovanni,  and  every  one  was 
moving  from  the  window  —  Nello,  whose  Florentine  curiosity 
was  of  that  lively  canine  sort  which  thinks  no  trifle  too 
despicable  for  investigation,  put  his  hand  on  Tito’s  shoulder 
and  said,  — 

What  acquaintance  was  that  you  were  making  signals  to, 
eh,  giovane  mio  ?  ” 

“  Some  little  contadina  who  probably  mistook  me  for  an 
acquaintance,  for  she  had  honored  me  with  a  greeting.” 

Or  who  wished  to  begin  an  acquaintance,”  said  Nello. 
'‘But  you  are  bound  for  the  Via  de’  Bardi  and  the  feast  of 
the  Muses  :  there  is  no  counting  on  you  for  a  frolic,  else  we 
might  have  gone  in  search  of  adventures  together  in  the  crowd, 
and  had  some  pleasant  fooling  in  honor  of  San  Giovanni.  But 
your  high  fortune  has  come  on  you  too  soon :  I  don’t  mean  the 
professor’s  mantle  —  that  is  roomy  enough  to  hide  a  few  stolen 
chickens,  but  —  Messer  Endymion  minded  his  manners  after 
that  singular  good  fortune  of  his ;  and  what  says  our  Luigi 
Pulci  ? 

‘  Da  quel  giorno  in  qua  ch’amor  m’accese 
Per  lei  son  fatto  e  gentile  e  cortese.’  ” 

“Nello,  amico  mio,  thou  hast  an  intolerable  trick  of  making 
life  stale  by  forestalling  it  with  thy  talk,”  said  Tito,  shrugging 
his  shoulders,  with  a  look  of  patient  resignation,  which  was 
his  nearest  approach  to  anger  ;  “  not  to  mention  that  such  ill- 
founded  babbling  would  be  held  a  great  offence  by  that  same 
goddess  whose  humble  worshipper  you  are  always  professing 
yourself.” 


A  MAN’S  RANSOM. 


101 


“I  will  be  mute,”  said  Nello,  laying  his  finger  on  his  lips, 
with  a  responding  shrug.  ‘‘But  it  is  only  under  our  four  eyes 
that  I  talk  any  folly  about  her.” 

‘‘Pardon!  you  were  on  the  verge  of  it  just  now  in  the  hear¬ 
ing  of  others.  If  you  want  to  ruin  me  in  the  minds  of  Bardo 
and  his  daughter  —  ” 

“Enough,  enough  !”  said  Nello.  “I  am  an  absurd  old  bar¬ 
ber.  It  all  comes  from  that  abstinence  of  mine,  in  not  making 
bad  verses  in  my  youth  :  for  want  of  letting  my  folly  run  out 
that  way  when  I  was  eighteen,  it  runs  out  at  my  tongue’s  end 
now  I  am  at  the  unseemly  age  of  fifty.  But  Nello  has  not 
got  his  head  mufiled  for  all  that ;  he  can  see  a  buffalo  in  the 
snow.  Addio,  giovane  rnio  !  ” 

» 


CHAPTER  IX. 

A  man’s  ransom. 

Tito  was  soon  down  among  the  crowd,  and,  notwithstand¬ 
ing  his  indifferent  reply  to  Nello’s  question  about  his  chance 
acquaintance,  he  was  not  without  a  passing  wish,  as  he  made 
his  way  round  the  piazza  to  the  Corso  degli  Adimari,  that  he 
might  encounter  the  pair  of  blue  eyes  which  had  looked  up 
towards  him  from  under  the  square  bit  of  white  linen  drapery 
that  formed  the  ordinary  hood  of  the  contadina  at  festa  time. 
He  was  perfectly  well  aware  that  that  face  was  Tessa’s  ;  but 
he  had  not  chosen  to  say  so.  What  had  Nello  to  do  with  the 
matter?  Tito  had  an  innate  love  of  reticence — let  us  say  a 
talent  for  it  —  which  acted,  as  other  impulses  do,  without  any 
conscious  motive,  and,  like  all  people  to  whom  concealment  is 
easy,  he  would  now  and  then  conceal  something  which  had  as 
little  the  nature  of  a  secret  as  the  fact  that  he  had  seen  a  flight 
of  crows. 

But  the  passing  wish  about  pretty  Tessa  was  almost  imme- 
liately  eclipsed  by  the  recurrent  recollection  of  that  friar  whose 


102 


ROMOLA. 


face  had  some  irrecoverable  association  for  him.  Why  should 
a  sickly  fanatic,  worn  with  fasting,  have  looked  at  him  in  par¬ 
ticular,  and  where  in  all  his  travels  could  he  remember  encoun¬ 
tering  that  face  before  ?  Folly  !  such  vague  memories  hang 
about  the  mind  like  cobwebs,  with  tickling  importunity  —  best 
to  sweep  them  away  at  a  dash :  and  Tito  had  pleasanter  occupa¬ 
tion  for  his  thoughts.  By  the  time  he  was  turning  out  of  the 
Corso  degli  Adimari  into  a  side-street  he  was  caring  only  that 
the  sun  was  high,  and  that  the  procession  had  kept  him  longer 
than  he  had  intended  from  his  visit  to  that  room  in  the  Via 
de’  Bardi,  where  his  coming,  he  knew,  was  anxiously  awaited. 
He  felt  the  scene  of  his  entrance  beforehand :  the  joy  beaming 
diffusedly  in  the  blind  face  like  the  light  in  a  semi-transparent 
lamp ;  the  transient  pink  flush  on  Romola’s  face  and  neck, 
which  subtracted  nothing  from  her  majesty,  but  only  gave  it 
the  exquisite  charm  of  womanly  sensitiveness,  heightened  still 
more  by  what  seemed  the  paradoxical,  boy-like  frankness  of 
her  look  and  smile.  They  were  the  best  comrades  in  the 
world  during  the  hours  they  passed  together  round  the  blind 
man’s  chair :  she  was  constantly  appealing  to  Tito,  and  he  was 
informing  her,  yet  he  felt  himself  strangely  in  subjection  to 
Romola  with  that  simplicity  of  hers :  he  felt  for  the  first 
time,  without  defining  it  to  himself,  that  loving  awe  in  the 
presence  of  noble  womanhood,  which  is  perhaps  something 
like  the  worship  paid  of  old  to  a  great  nature-goddess,  who 
was  not  all-knowing,  but  whose  life  and  power  were  something 
deeper  and  more  primordial  than  knowledge.  They  had  ne'C'er 
been  alone  together,  and  he  could  frame  to  himself  no  probable 
image  of  love-scenes  between  them :  he  could  only  fancy  and 
wish  wildly  —  what  he  knew  was  impossible  —  that  Eomola 
would  some  day  tell  him  that  she  loved  him.  One  day  in 
Greece,  as  he  was  leaning  over  a  wall  in  the  sunshine,  a  little 
black-eyed  peasant  girl,  who  had  rested  her  water-pot  on  the 
wall,  crept  gradually  nearer  and  nearer  to  him,  and  at  last  shyly 
asked  him  to  kiss  her,  putting  up  her  round  olive  cheek  very 
innocently.  Tito  was  used  to  love  that  came  in  this  unsought 
fashion.  But  Romola’s  love  would  never  come  in  that  way : 
would  it  ever  come  at  all  ?  —  and  yet  it  was  that  topmost  apple 


A  MAN’S  RANSOM. 


103 


on  which  he  had  set  his  mind.  He  was  in  his  fresh  youth  — 
not  passionate,  but  impressible :  it  was  as  inevitable  that  he 
should  feel  lovingly  towards  Romola  as  that  the  white  irises 
should  be  reflected  in  the  clear  sunlit  stream  ;  but  he  had  no 
coxcombry,  and  he  had  an  intimate  sense  that  Romola  was 
something  very  much  above  him.  Many  nen  have  felt  the 
same  before  a  large-eyed,  simple  child. 

Nevertheless,  Tito  had  had  the  rapid  success  which  would 
have  made  some  men  presuming,  or  would  have  warranted 
him  in  thinking  that  there  would  be  no  great  presumption  in 
entertaining  an  agreeable  confidence  that  he  might  one  day  be 
the  husband  of  Romola  —  nay,  that  her  father  himself  was  not 
without  a  vision  of  such  a  future  for  him.  His  first  auspicious 
interview  with  Bartolommeo  Scala  had  proved  the  commence¬ 
ment  of  a  growing  favor  on  the  secretary’s  part,  and  had  led 
to  an  issue  which  would  have  been  enough  to  make  Tito  decide 
on  Florence  as  the  place  in  which  to  establish  himself,  even 
if  it  had  held  no  other  magnet.  Politian  was  professor  of 
Greek  as  well  as  Latin  at  Florence,  professorial  chairs  being 
maintained  there,  although  the  university  had  been  removed 
to  Pisa ;  but  for  a  long  time  Hemetrio  Calcondila,  one  of  the 
most  eminent  and  respectable  among  the  emigrant  Greeks, 
had  also  held  a  Greek  chair,  simultaneously  with  the  too  pre-  • 
dominant  Italian.  Calcondila  was  now  gone  to  Milan,  and 
there  was  no  counterpoise  or  rival  to  Politian  such  as  was 
desired  for  him  by  the  friends  who  wished  him  to  be  taught 
a  little  propriety  and  humility.  Scala  was  far  from  being  the 
only  friend  of  this  class,  and  he  found  several  who,  if  they 
were  not  among  those  thirsty  admirers  of  mediocrity  that  were 
glad  to  be  refreshed  with  his  verses  in  hot  weather,  were  yet 
quite  willing  to  join  him  in  doing  that  moral  service  to  Politian. 

It  was  finally  agreed  that  Tito  should  be  supported  in  a  Greek 
chair,  as  Demetrio  Calcondila  had  been  by  Lorenzo  himself, 
who,  being  at  the  same  time  the  affectionate  patron  of  Poli¬ 
tian,  had  shown  by  precedent  that  there  was  nothing  invidious 
in  such  a  measure,  but  only  a  zeal  for  true  learning  and  for 
the  instruction  of  the  Florentine  youth. 

Tito  was  thus  sailing  under  the  fairest  breeze,  and  besides 


104 


ROMOLA. 


convincing  fair  judges  that  his  talents  squared  with  his  good 
fortune,  he  wore  that  fortune  so  easily  and  unpretentiously 
that  no  one  had  yet  been  offended  by  it.  He  was  not  unlikely 
to  get  into  the  best  Florentine  society  :  society  where  there 
was  much  more  plate  than  the  circle  of  enamelled  silver  in  the 
centre  of  the  brass  dishes,  and  where  it  was  not  forbidden  by 
the  Signory  to  wear  the  richest  brocade.  For  where  could  a 
handsome  young  scholar  not  be  welcome  when  he  could  touch 
the  lute  and  troll  a  gay  song  ?  That  bright  face,  that  easy 
smile,  that  liquid  voice,  seemed  to  give  life  a  holiday  aspect ; 
just  as  a  strain  of  gay  music  and  the  hoisting  of  colors  make 
the  work-worn  and  the  sad  rather  ashamed  of  showing  them¬ 
selves.  Here  was  a  professor  likely  to  render  the  Greek 
classics  amiable  to  the  sons  of  great  houses. 

And  that  was  not  the  whole  of  Tito’s  good  fortune  ;  for  he 
had  sold  all  his  jewels,  except  the  ring  he  did  not  choose  to 
part  with,  and  he  was  master  of  full  five  hundred  gold  florins. 

Yet  the  moment  when  he  first  had  this  sum  in  his  posses¬ 
sion  was  the  crisis  of  the  first  serious  struggle  his  facile,  good- 
humored  nature  had  known.  An  importunate  thought,  of 
which  he  had  till  now  refused  to  see  more  than  the  shadow  as 
it  dogged  his  footsteps,  at  last  rushed  upon  him  and  grasped 
him ;  he  was  obliged  to  pause  and  decide  whether  he  would 
surrender  and  obey,  or  whether  he  would  give  the  refusal  that 
must  carry  irrevocable  consequences.  It  was  in  the  room 
above  Hello’s  shop,  which  Tito  had  now  hired  as  a  lodging, 
that  the  elder  Cennini  handed  him  the  last  quota  of  the 
sum  on  behalf  of  Bernardo  Eucellai,  the  purchaser  of  the 
two  most  valuable  gems. 

Ecco,  giovane  mio !  ”  said  the  respectable  printer  and 
goldsmith,  you  have  now  a  pretty  little  fortune ;  and  if  you 
will  take  my  advice,  you  will  let  me  place  your  florins  in  a 
safe  quarter,  where  they  may  increase  and  multiply,  instead  of 
slipping  through  your  fingers  for  banquets  and  other  follies 
which  are  rife  among  our  Florentine  youth.  And  it  has  been 
too  much  the  fashion  of  scholars,  especially  when,  like  our 
Pietro  Crinito,  they  think  their  scholarship  needs  to  be  scented 
and  broidered,  to  squander  with  one  hand  till  they  have  been 


A  MAN’S  RANSOM. 


fain  to  beg  with  the  other.  I  have  brought  you  the  money, 
and  you  are  free  to  make  a  wise  choice  or  an  unwise :  I  shall 
see  on  which  side  the  balance  dips.  We  Florentines  hold  no 
man  a  member  of  an  Art  till  he  has  shown  his  skill  and 
been  matriculated ;  and  no  man  is  matriculated  to  the  art  of 
life  till  he  has  been  well  tempted.  If  you  make  up  your 
mind  to  put  your  florins  out  to  usury,  you  can  let  me  know  to¬ 
morrow.  A  scholar  may  marry,  and  should  have  something 
ill  readiness  for  the  morgen-cap.^  Addio.” 

As  Cennini  closed  the  door  behind  him,  Tito  turned  round 
with  the  smile  dying  out  of  his  face,  and  fixed  his  eyes  on  the 
table  where  the  florins  lay.  He  made  no  other  movement, 
but  stood  with  his  thumbs  in  his  belt,  looking  down,  in  that 
transfixed  state  which  accompanies  the  concentration  of  con¬ 
sciousness  on  some  inward  image. 

A  man’s  ransom  !  ”  —  who  was  it  that  had  said  five  hun¬ 
dred  florins  was  more  than  a  man’s  ransom  ?  If  now,  under 
this  mid-day  sun,  on  some  hot  coast  far  away,  a  man  some¬ 
what  stricken  in  years  —  a  man  not  without  high  thoughts 
and  with  the  most  passionate  heart  —  a  man  who  long  years 
ago  had  rescued  a  little  boy  from  a  life  of  beggary,  filth,  and 
cruel  wrong,  had  reared  him  tenderly,  and  been  to  him  as  a 
father  —  if  that  man  were  now  under  this  summer  sun  toiling 
as  a  slave,  hewing  wood  and  drawing  water,  perhaps  being 
smitten  and  buffeted  because  he  was  not  deft  and  active  ?  If 
he  were  saying  to  himself,  “  Tito  will  find  me  :  he  had  but  to 
carry  our  manuscripts  and  gems  to  Venice  ;  he  will  have  raised 
money,  and  will  never  rest  till  he  finds  me  out  ”  ?  If  that 
were  certain,  could  he,  Tito,  see  the  price  of  the  gems  lying 
before  him,  and  say,  will  stay  at  Florence,  where  I  am 
fanned  by  soft  airs  of  promised  love  and  prosperity ;  I  will  not 
risk  myself  for  his  sake  ?”  No,  surely  not,  if  it  were  certain. 
But  nothing  could  be  farther  from  certainty.  The  galley  had 
been  taken  by  a  Turkish  vessel  on  its  way  to  Delos :  that  was 
known  by  the  report  of  the  companion  galley,  which  had  es¬ 
caped.  But  there  had  been  resistance,  and  probable  blood- 

^  A  sum  given  by  the  bridegroom  to  the  bride  the  day  after  the  marriage 
(Morgengahe). 


106 


ROMOLA. 


shed ;  a  man  had  been  seen  falling  overboard  :  who  were  the 
survivors,  and  what  had  befallen  them  among  all  the  multi¬ 
tude  of  possibilities  ?  Had  not  he,  Tito,  suffered  shipwreck, 
and  narrowly  escaped  drowning?  He  had  good  cause  for 
feeling  the  omnipresence  of  casualties  that  threatened  all 
projects  with  futility.  The  rumor  that  there  were  pirates  who 
had  a  settlement  in  Delos  was  not  to  be  depended  on,  or 
might  be  nothing  to  the  purpose.  What,  probably  enough, 
would  be  the  result  if  he  were  to  quit  Florence  and  go  to 
Venice;  get  authoritative  letters  —  yes,  he  knew  that  might 
be  done  —  and  set  out  for  the  Archipelago  ?  Why,  that  he 
should  be  himself  seized,  and  spend  all  his  florins  on  prelim¬ 
inaries,  and  be  again  a  destitute  wanderer  —  with  no  more 
gems  to  sell. 

Tito  had  a  clearer  vision  of  that  result  than  of  the  possible 
moment  when  he  might  find  his  father  again,  and  carry  him 
deliverance.  It  would  surely  be  an  unfairness  that  he,  in  his 
full  ripe  youth,  to  whom  life  had  hitherto  had  some  of  the 
stint  and  subjection  of  a  school,  should  turn  his  back  on 
promised  love  and  distinction,  and  perhaps  never  be  visited 
by  that  promise  again.  “  And  yet,”  he  said  to  himself,  “  if 
I  were  certain  that  Baldassarre  Calvo  was  alive,  and  that  I 
could  free  him,  by  whatever  exertions  or  perils,  I  would  go  now 
—  now  I  have  the  money  :  it  was  useless  to  debate  the  matter 
before.  I  would  go  now  to  Bardo  and  Bartolommeo  Scala,  and 
tell  them  the  whole  truth.”  Tito  did  not  say  to  himself  so 
distinctly  that  if  those  two  men  had  known  the  whole  truth 
he  was  aware  there  would  have  been  no  alternative  for  him 
but  to  go  in  search  of  his  benefactor,  who,  if  alive,  was  the 
rightful  owner  of  the  gems,  and  whom  he  had  always  equivo¬ 
cally  spoken  of  as  “  lost ;  ”  he  did  not  say  to  himself  —  what 
he  was  not  ignorant  of  —  that  Greeks  of  distinction  had  made 
sacrifices,  taken  voyages  again  and  again,  and  sought  help 
from  crowned  and  mitred  heads  for  the  sake  of  freeing  rela¬ 
tives  from  slavery  to  the  Turks.  Public  opinion  did  not  regard 
this  as  exceptional  virtue. 

This  was  his  first  real  colloquy  with  himself :  he  had  gone 
on  following  the  impulses  of  the  moment,  and  one  of  those 


A  MAN’S  RANSOM. 


107 


impulses  had  been  to  conceal  half  the  fact,  he  had  never  con¬ 
sidered  this  part  of  bis  conduct  long  enough  to  face  the  con¬ 
sciousness  of  his  motives  for  the  concealment.  What  was 

■P 

the  use  of  telling  the  whole  ?  It  was  true,  the  thought  had 
crossed  his  mind  several  times  since  he  had  quitted  Nauplia 
that,  after  all,  it  was  a  great  relief  to  be  quit  of  Baldassarre, 
and  he  would  have  liked  to  know  wAo  it  was  that  had  fallen 
overboard.  But  such  thoughts  spring  inevitably  out  of  a  re¬ 
lation  that  is  irksome.  Baldassarre  was  exacting,  and  had 
got  stranger  as  he  got  older :  he  was  constantly  scrutinizing 
Tito’s  mind  to  see  whether  it  answered  to  his  own  exaggerated 
expectations;  and  age — the  age  of  a  thick -set,  heavy-browed, 
bald  man  beyond  sixty,  whose  intensity  and  eagerness  in  the 
grasp  of  ideas  have  long  taken  the  character  of  monotony  and 
repetition,  may  be  looked  at  from  many  points  of  view  with¬ 
out  being  found  attractive.  Such  a  man,  stranded  among  new 
acquaintances,  unless  he  had  the  philosopher’s  stone,  would 
hardly  find  rank,  youth,  and  beauty  at  his  feet.  The  feelings 
that  gather  fervor  from  novelty  will  be  of  little  help  towards 
making  the  world  a  home  for  dimmed  and  faded  human 
beings ;  and  if  there  is  any  love  of  which  they  are  not 
widowed,  it  must  be  the  love  that  is  rooted  in  memories  and 
distils  perpetually  the  sweet  balms  of  fidelity  and  forbearing 
tenderness. 

But  surely  such  memories  were  not  absent  from  Tito’s 
mind?  Far  in  the  backward  vista  of  his  remembered  life, 
when  he  was  only  seven  years  old,  Baldassarre  had  rescued 
him  from  blows,  had  taken  him  to  a  home  that  seemed  like 
opened  paradise,  where  there  was  sweet  food  and  soothing  ca¬ 
resses,  all  had  on  Baldassarre’s  knee  ;  and  from  that  time  till 
the  hour  they  had  parted,  Tito  had  been  the  one  centre  of 
Baldassarre’s  fatherly  cares. 

And  he  had  been  docile,  pliable,  quick  of  apprehension, 
ready  to  acquire :  a  very  bright  lovely  boy ;  a  youth  of  even 
splendid  grace,  who  seemed  quite  without  vices,  as  if  that 
beautiful  form  represented  a  vitality  so  exquisitely  poised  and 
balanced  that  it  could  know  no  uneasy  desires,  no  unrest  —  a 
radiant  presence  for  a  lonely  man  to  have  won  for  himself.  If 


108 


ROMOLA. 


he  were  silent  when  his  father  expected  some  response,  stili 
he  did  not  look  moody ;  if  he  declined  some  labor  —  why,  he 
flung  himself  down  with  such  a  charming,  half-smiling,  half¬ 
pleading  air,  that  the  pleasure  of  looking  at  him  made  amends 
to  one  who  had  watched  his  growth  with  a  sense  of  claim  and 
possession  :  the  curves  of  Tito’s  mouth  had  ineffable  good- 
humor  in  them.  And  then,  the  quick  talent  to  which  everything 
came  readily,  from  philosophical  systems  to  the  rhymes  of  a 
street  ballad  caught  up  at  a  hearing  !  Would  any  one  have  said 
that  Tito  had  not  made  a  rich  return  to  his  benefactor,  or  that 
his  gratitude  and  affection  would  fail  on  any  great  demand  ? 

He  did  not  admit  that  his  gratitude  had  failed ;  but  it  was 
not  certain  that  Baldassarre  was  in  slavery,  not  certain  that 
he  was  living. 

‘‘  Do  I  not  owe  something  to  myself  ?  ”  said  Tito,  inwardly, 
with  a  slight  movement  of  his  shoulders,  the  first  he  had  made 
since  he  had  turned  to  look  down  at  the  florins.  “Before  I 
quit  everything,  and  incur  again  all  the  risks  of  which  I  am 
even  now  weary,  I  must  at  least  have  a  reasonable  hope.  Am 
I  to  spend  my  life  in  a  wandering  search  ?  I  believe  he  is 
dead.  Cennini  was  right  about  my  florins  :  I  will  place  them 
in  his  hands  to-morrow.” 

When,  the  next  morning,  Tito  put  this  determination  into 
act  he  had  chosen  his  color  in  the  game,  and  had  given  an  in¬ 
evitable  bent  to  his  wishes.  He  had  made  it  impossible  that 
he  should  not  from  henceforth  desire  it  to  be  the  truth  that 
his  father  was  dead  ;  impossible  that  he  should  not  be  tempted 
to  baseness  rather  than  that  the  precise  facts  of  his.  conduct 
should  not  remain  forever  concealed. 

Under  every  guilty  secret  there  is  hidden  a  brood  of  guilty 
wishes,  whose  unwholesome  infecting  life  is  cherished  by  the 
darkness.  The  contaminating  effect  of  deeds  often  lies  less 
in  the  commission  than  in  the  consequent  adjustment  of  our 
desires  —  the  enlistment  of  our  self-interest  on  the  side  of 
falsity  ;  as,  on  the  other  hand,  the  purifying  influence  of  pub¬ 
lic  confession  springs  from  the  fact,  that  by  it  the  hope  in  lies 
is  forever  swept  away,  and  the  soul  recovers  the  noble  attitude 
of  simplicity. 


UNDER  THE  PLANE-TREE. 


109 


Besides,  in  this  first  distinct  colloquy  with  himself  the  ideas 
which  had  previously  been  scattered  and  interrupted  had  now 
concentrated  themselves;  the  little  rills  of  selfishness  had 
united  and  made  a  channel,  so  that  they  could  never  again 
meet  with  the  same  resistance.  Hitherto  Tito  had  left  in 
vague  indecision  the  question  vdiether,  with  the  means  in  his 
power,  he  would  not  return,  and  ascertain  his  father’s  fate ;  he 
had  now  made  a  definite  excuse  to  himself  for  not  taking  that 
course ;  he  had  avowed  to  himself  a  choice  which  he  would 
have  been  ashamed  to  avow  to  others,  and  which  would  have 
made  him  ashamed  in  the  resurgent  presence  of  his  father. 
But  the  inward  shame,  the  reflex  of  that  outward  law  which 
the  great  heart  of  mankind  makes  for  every  individual  man,  a 
reflex  which  will  exist  even  in  the  absence  of  the  sympathetic 
impulses  that  need  no  law,  but  rush  to  the  deed  of  fidelity  and 
pity  as  inevitably  as  the  brute  mother  shields  her  young  from 
the  attack  of  the  hereditary  enemy — that  inward  shame  was 
showing  its  blushes  in  Tito’s  determined  assertion  to  himself 
that  his  father  was  dead,  or  that  at  least  search  was  hopeless. 


CHAPTEK  X. 

UNDER  THE  PLANE-TREE. 

On  the  day  of  San  Giovanni  it  was  already  three  weeks  ago 
that  Tito  had  handed  his  florins  to  Cennini,  and  we  have  seen 
that  as  he  set  out  towards  the  Via  de’  Bardi  he  showed  all  the 
outward  signs  of  a  mind  at  ease.  How  should  it  be  other¬ 
wise  ?  He  never  jarred  with  what  was  immediately  around 
him,  and  his  nature  was  too  joyous,  too  unapprehensive,  for 
the  hidden  and  the  distant  to  grasp  him  in  the  shape  of  a 
dread.  As  he  turned  out  of  the  hot  sunshine  into  the  shelter 
of  a  narrow  street,  took  off  the  black  cloth  berretta,  or  simple 
cap  with  upturned  lappet,  which  just  crowned  his  brown  curls, 
pushing  his  hair  and  tossing  his  head  backward  to  court  the 


no 


ROMOLA. 


cooler  air,  there  was  no  brand  of  duplicity  on  his  brow  ;  neither 
was  there  any  stamp  of  candor  :  it  was  simply  a  finely  formed, 
square,  smooth  young  brow ;  and  the  slow  absent  glance  he 
cast  around  at  the  upper  windows  of  the  houses  had  neither 
more  dissimulation  in  it,  nor  more  ingenuousness,  than  belongs 
to  a  youthful  well-opened  eyelid  with  its  unwearied  breadth 
of  gaze  ;  to  perfectly  pellucid  lenses ;  to  the  undimmed  dark 
of  a  rich  brown  iris ;  and  to  a  pure  cerulean-tinted  angle  of 
whiteness  streaked  with  the  delicate  shadows  of  long  eye¬ 
lashes.  Was  it  that  Tito’s  face  attracted  or  repelled  according 
to  the  mental  attitude  of  the  observer  ?  Was  it  a  cipher  with 
more  than  one  key  ?  The  strong,  unmistakable  expression  in 
his  whole  air  and  person  was  a  negative  one,  and  it  was  per¬ 
fectly  veracious  ;  it  declared  the  absence  of  any  uneasy  claim, 
a]i_y  restless  vanity,  and  it  made  the  admiration  that  followed 
him  as  he  passed  among  the  troop  of  holiday-makers  a  thor¬ 
oughly  willing  tribute. 

For  by  this  time  the  stir  of  the  Festa  was  felt  even  in  the 
narrowest  side-streets  ;  the  throng  which  had  at  one  time  been 
concentrated  in  the  lines  through  which  the  procession  had 
to  pass,  was  now  streaming  out  in  all  directions  in  pursuit  of 
a  new  object.  Such  intervals  of  a  Festa  are  precisely  the 
moments  when  the  vaguely  active  animal  spirits  of  a  crowd 
are  likely  to  be  the  most  petulant  and  most  ready  to  sacrifice 
a  stray  individual  to  the  greater  happiness  of  the  greater  num¬ 
ber.  As  Tito  entered  the  neighborhood  of  San  Martino,  he 
found  the  throng  rather  denser ;  and  near  the  hostelry  of  the 
Bertxtcce,  or  Baboons,  there  was  evidently  some  object  which 
was  arresting  the  passengers  and  forming  them  into  a  knot. 
It  needed  nothing  of  great  interest  to  draw  aside  passengers 
unfreighted  with  a  purpose,  and  Tito  was  preparing  to  turn 
aside  into  an  adjoining  street,  when,  amidst  the  loud  laughter, 
his  ear  discerned  a  distressed  childish  voice  crying,  Loose 
me  !  Holy  Virgin,  help  me  !  ”  which  at  once  determined  him 
to  push  his  way  into  the  knot  of  gazers.  He  had  just  had 
time  to  perceive  that  the  distressed  voice  came  from  a  young 
contadina,  whose  white  hood  had  fallen  off  in  the  struggle  to 
get  her  hands  free  from  the  grasp  of  a  man  in  the  parti- 


UNDER  THE  PLANE-TREE. 


Ill 


colored  dress  of  a  cerretano,  or  conjurer,  who  was  making 
laughing  attempts  to  soothe  and  cajole  her,  evidently  carrying 
with  him  the  amused  sympathy  of  the  spectators.  These,  by 
a  persuasive  variety  of  words  signifying  simpleton,  for  which 
the  Florentine  dialect  is  rich  in  equivalents,  seemed  to  be 
arguing  with  the  contadina  against  her  obstinacy.  At  the  first 
moment  the  girl’s  face  was  turned  away,  and  he  saw  only  her 
light-brown  hair  plaited  and  fastened  with  a  long  silver  pin  ; 
but  in  the  next,  the  struggle  brought  her  face  opposite 
Tito’s,  and  he  saw  the  baby  features  of  Tessa,  her  blue  eyes 
filled  with  tears,  and  her  under-lip  quivering.  Tessa,  too,  saw 
him,  and  through  the  mist  of  her  swelling  tears  there  beamed 
a  sudden  hope,  like  that  in  the  face  of  a  little  child,  when, 
held  by  a  stranger  against  its  will,  it  sees  a  familiar  hand 
stretched  out 

In  an  instant  Tito  had  pushed  his  way  through  the  barrier 
of  bystanders,  whose  curiosity  made  them  ready  to  turn  aside 
at  the  sudden  interference  of  this  handsome  young  signor, 
had  grasped  Tessa’s  waist,  and  had  said,  ‘‘  Loose  this  child  ! 
What  right  have  you  to  hold  her  against  her  will  ?  ” 

The  conjurer  —  a  man  with  one  of  those  faces  in  which  the 
angles  of  the  eyes  and  eyebrows,  of  the  nostrils,  mouth,  and 
sharply  defined  jaw,  all  tend  upward  —  showed  his  small  regu¬ 
lar  teeth  in  an  impish  but  not  ill-natured  grin,  as  he  let  go 
Tessa’s  hands,  and  stretched  out  his  own  backward,  shrugging 
his  shoulders,  and  bending  them  forward  a  little  in  a  half- 
apologetic,  half-protesting  manner. 

“  I  meant  the  ragazza  no  evil  in  the  w;orld,  Messere  :  ask 
this  respectable  company.  I  was  only  going  to  show  them  a 
few  samples  of  my  skill,  in  which  this  little  damsel  might  have 
helped  me  the  better  because  of  her  kitten  face,  which  would 
have  assured  them  of  open  dealing ;  and  I  had  promised  her  a 
lapful  of  confetti  as  a  reward.  But  what  then  ?  Messer  has 
doubtless  better  confetti  at  hand,  and  she  knows  it.” 

A  general  laugh  among  the  bystanders  accompanied  these 
last  words  of  the  conjurer,  raised,  probably,  by  the  look  of  re¬ 
lief  and  confidence  with  which  Tessa  clung  to  Tito’s  arm,  as 
he  drew  it  from  her  waist  and  placed  her  hand  within  it.  She 


112 


ROMOLA. 


only  cared  about  the  laugh  as  she  might  have  cared  about  the 
roar  of  wild  beasts  from  which  she  was  escaping,  not  attaching 
any  meaning  to  it ;  but  Tito,  who  had  no  sooner  got  her  on  his 
arm  than  he  foresaw  some  embarrassment  in  the  situation, 
hastened  to  get  clear  of  observers,  who,  having  been  despoiled 
of  an  expected  amusement,  were  sure  to  re-establish  the 
balance  by  jests. 

“  See,  see,  little  one  !  here  is  your  hood,”  said  the  conjurer, 
throwing  the  bit  of  white  drapery  over  Tessa’s  head.  Orsu, 
bear  me  no  malice ;  come  back  to  me  when  Messere  can  spare 
you.” 

‘^Ah!  Maestro  Vaiano,  she’ll  come  back  presently,  as  the 
toad  said  to  the  harrow,”  called  out  one  of  the  spectators, 
seeing  how  Tessa  started  and  shrank  at  the  action  of  the 
conjurer. 

Tito  pushed  his  way  vigorously  towards  the  corner  of  a  side 
street,  a  little  vexed  at  this  delay  in  his  progress  to  the  Via 
de’  Bardi,  and  intending  to  get  rid  of  the  poor  little  contadina 
as  soon  as  possible.  The  next  street,  too,  had  its  passengers 
inclined  to  make  holiday  remarks  on  so  unusual  a  pair  ;  but 
they  had  no  sooner  entered  it  than  he  said,  in  a  kind  but  hur¬ 
ried  manner,  “  Now,  little  one,  where  were  you  going  ?  Are 
you  come  by  yourself  to  the  Festa  ?  ” 

“  Ah,  no  !  ”  said  Tessa,  looking  frightened  and  distressed 
again;  “I  have  lost  my  mother  in  the  crowd — her  and  my 
father-in-law.  They  will  be  angry  —  he  will  beat  me.  It  was 
in  the  crowd  in  San  Pulinari  —  somebody  pushed  me  along 
and  I  could  n’t  stop  myself,  so  I  got  away  from  them.  Oh,  I 
don’t  know  where  they  ’re  gone  !  Please,  don’t  leave  me  !  ” 

Her  eyes  had  been  swelling  with  tears  again,  and  she  ended 
with  a  sob. 

Tito  hurried  along  again ;  the  Church  of  the  Badia  was  not 
far  off.  They  could  enter  it  by  the  cloister  that  opened  at  the 
back,  and  in  the  church  he  could  talk  to  Tessa  —  perhaps  leave 
her.  No  !  it  was  an  hour  at  which  the  church  was  not  open  ; 
but  they  paused  under  the  shelter  of  the  cloister,  and  he  said, 
“  Have  you  no  cousin  or  friend  in  Florence,  my  little  Tessa, 
whose  house  you  could  find ;  or  are  you  afraid  of  walking  by 


UNDER  THE  PLANE-TREE. 


113 


yourself  since  you  have  been  frightened  by  the  conjurer  ?  I 
am  in  a  hurry  to  get  to  Oltrarno,  but  if  I  could  take  you  any¬ 
where  near  —  ” 

“  Oh,  I  am  frightened :  he  was  the  devil  —  I  know  he  was. 
And  I  don’t  know  where  to  go.  I  have  nobody :  and  my 
mother  meant  to  have  her  dinner  somewhere,  and  I  don’t  know 
where.  Holy  Madonna  !  I  shall  be  beaten.” 

The  corners  of  the  pouting  mouth  went  down  piteously, 
and  the  poor  little  bosom  with  the  beads  on  it  above  the  green 
serge  gown  heaved  so  that  there  was  no  longer  any  help  for 
it :  a  loud  sob  would  come,  and  the  big  tears  fell  as  if  they 
were  making  up  for  lost  time.  Here  was  a  situation  !  It 
would  have  been  brutal  to  leave  her,  and  Tito’s  nature  was  all 
gentleness.  He  wished  at  that  moment  that  he  had  not  been 
expected  in  the  Via  de’  Bardi.  As  he  saw  her  lifting  up  her 
holiday  apron  to  catch  the  hurrying  tears,  he  laid  his  hand, 
too,  on  the  apron,  and  rubbed  one  of  the  cheeks  and  kissed  the 
baby-like  roundness. 

“  My  poor  little  Tessa !  leave  off  crying.  Let  us  see  what 
can  be  done.  Where  is  your  home  —  where  do  you  live  ?  ” 

There  was  no  answer,  but  the  sobs  began  to  subside  a  little 
and  the  drops  to  fall  less  quickly. 

“  Come  !  I  ’ll  take  you  a  little  way,  if  you  ’ll  tell  me  where 
you  want  to  go.” 

The  apron  fell,  and  Tessa’s  face  began  to  look  as  contented 
as  a  cherub’s  budding  from  a  cloud.  The  diabolical  conjurer, 
the  anger,  and  the  beating  seemed  a  long  way  off. 

“  I  think  I  ’ll  go  home,  if  you  ’ll  take  me,”  she  said,  in  a  half 
whisper,  looking  up  at  Tito  with  wide  blue  eyes,  and  with 
something  sweeter  than  a  smile  —  with  a  childlike  calm. 

“  Come,  then,  little  one,”  said  Tito,  in  a  caressing  tone,  put¬ 
ting  her  arm  within  his  again.  Which  way  is  it?” 

“  Beyond  Peretola  —  where  the  large  pear-tree  is.” 

“  Peretola  ?  Out  at  which  gate,  pazzarella  ?  I  am  a  stram 
ger,  you  must  remember.” 

Out  at  the  Por  del  Prato,”  said  Tessa,  moving  along  with 
a  very  fast  hold  on  Tito’s  arm. 

He  did  not  know  all  the  turnings  well  enough  to  venture 

VOL.  V.  8 


114 


ROMOLA. 


on  an  attempt  at  choosing  the  quietest  streets ;  and  besides,  it 
occurred  to  him  that  where  the  passengers  were  most  numer¬ 
ous  there  was,  perhaps,  the  most  chance  of  meeting  with  Monna 
Ghita  and  finding  an  end  to  his  knight-errantship.  So  he  made 
straight  for  Porta  Eossa,  and  on  to  Ognissanti,  showing  his 
usual  bright  propitiatory  face  to  the  mixed  observers  who 
threw  their  jests  at  him  and  his  little  heavy-shod  maiden  with 
much  liberality.  Mingled  with  the  more  decent  holiday-makers 
there  were  frolicsome  apprentices,  rather  envious  of  his  good- 
fortune  ;  bold-eyed  women  with  the  badge  of  the  yellow  veil ; 
beggars  who  thrust  forward  their  caps  for  alms,  in  derision  at 
Tito’s  evident  haste  ;  dicers,  sharpers,  and  loungers  of  the 
worst  sort ;  boys  whose  tongues  were  used  to  wag  in  concert  at 
the  most  brutal  street  games  :  for  the  streets  of  Florence  were 
not  always  a  moral  spectacle  in  those  times,  and  Tessa’s  terror 
at  being  lost  in  the  crowd  was  not  wholly  unreasonable. 

When  they  reached  the  Piazza  d’Ognissanti,  Tito  slackened 
his  pace :  they  were  both  heated  with  their  hurried  walk,  and 
here  was  a  wider  space  where  they  could  take  breath.  They 
sat  down  on  one  of  the  stone  benches  which  were  frequent 
against  the  walls  of  old  Florentine  houses. 

“  Holy  Virgin !  ”  said  Tessa ;  I  am  glad  we  have  got 
away  from  those  women  and  boys ;  but  I  was  not  frightened, 
because  you  could  take  care  of  me.” 

“  Pretty  little  Tessa  !  ”  said  Tito,  smiling  at  her.  “  What 
makes  you  feel  so  safe  with  me  ?  ” 

“  Because  you  are  so  beautiful  —  like  the  people  going  into 
Paradise  :  they  are  all  good.” 

“  It  is  a  long  while  since  you  had  your  breakfast,  Tessa,” 
said  Tito,  seeing  some  stalls  near,  with  fruit  and  sweetmeats 
upon  them.  “  Are  you  hungry  ?  ” 

Yes,  I  think  I  am —  if  you  will  have  some  too.” 

Tito  bought  some  apricots,  and  cakes,  and  comfits,  ana  put 
them  into  her  apron. 

Come,”  he  said,  “  let  us  walk  on  to  the  Prato,  and  then 
perhaps  you  will  not  be  afraid  to  go  the  rest  of  the  way 
alone.” 

“But  you  will  have  some  of  the  apricots  and  things,”  said 


UNDER  THE  PLANE-TREE.  115 

Tessa^  rising  obediently  and  gathering  up  her  apron  as  a  bag 
for  her  store. 

“We  will  see/’  said  Tito,  aloud;  and  to  himself  he  said, 
“  Here  is  a  little  contadina  who  might  inspire  a  better  idyl 
than  Lorenzo  de’  Medici’s  ‘Nencia  da  Barberiuo,’  that  Nello’s 
friends  rave  about ;  if  I  were  only  a  Theocritus,  or  had  time  to 
cultivate  the  necessary  experience  by  unseasonable  walks  of 
this  sort !  However,  the  mischief  is  done  now ;  I  am  so  late 
already  that  another  half-hour  will  make  no  difference.  Pretty 
little  pigeon !  ” 

“We  have  a  garden  and  plenty  of  pears,”  said  Tessa,  “and 
two  cows,  besides  the  mules  ;  and  I ’m  very  fond  of  them.  But 
my  father-in-law  is  a  cross  man :  I  wish  my  mother  had  not 
married  him.  I  think  he  is  wicked ;  he  is  very  ugly.” 

“And  does  your  mother  let  him  heat  you,  poverina?  You 
said  you  were  afraid  of  being  beaten.” 

“  Ah,  my  mother  herself  scolds  me  :  she  loves  my  young 
sister  better,  and  thinks  I  don’t  do  work  enough.  Nobody 
speaks  kindly  to  me,  only  the  Pievano  (parish  priest)  when  I 
go  to  confession.  And  the  men  in  the  Mercato  laugh  at  me 
and  make  fun  of  me.  Nobody  ever  kissed  me  and  spoke  to 
me  as  you  do;  just  as  I  talk  to  my  little  black-faced  kid, 
because  I ’m  very  fond  of  it.” 

It  seemed  not  to  have  entered  Tessa’s  mind  that  there  was 
any  change  in  Tito’s  appearance  since  the  morning  he  begged 
the  milk  from  her,  and  that  he  looked  now  like  a  personage 
for  whom  she  must  summon  her  little  stock  of  reverent  words 
and  signs.  He  had  impressed  her  too  differently  from  any 
human  being  who  had  ever  come  near  hev  before,  for  her  to 
make  any  comparison  of  details  ;  she  took  no  note  of  his  dress ; 
he  was  simply  a  voice  and  a  face  to  her,  something  come  from 
Paradise  into  a  world  where  most  things  seemed  hard  and  an¬ 
gry  ;  and  she  prattled  with  as  little  restraint  as  if  he  had  been 
an  imaginary  companion  born  of  her  own  lovingness  and  the 
sunshine. 

They  had  now  reached  the  Prato,  which  at  that  time  was  a 
large  open  space  within  the  walls,  where  the  Plorentine  youth 
played  at  their  favorite  Calcio — a  peculiar  kind  of  football  — 


116 


EOMOLA. 


and  otherwise  exercised  themselves.  At  this  mid-day  time 
it  was  forsaken  and  quiet  to  the  very  gates,  where  a  tent  bad 
been  erected  in  preparation  for  the  race.  On  the  border  of 
this  wide  meadow,  Tito  paused  and  said  — 

‘‘Now,  Tessa,  you  will  not  be  frightened  if  I  leave  you  to 
walk  the  rest  of  the  way  by  yourself.  Addio !  Shall  I  come 
and  buy  a  cup  of  milk  from  you  in  the  Mercato  to-morrow 
morning,  to  see  that  you  are  quite  safe  ?  ” 

He  added  this  question  in  a  soothing  tone,  as  he  saw  her 
eyes  widening  sorrowfully,  and  the  corners  of  her  mouth  fall¬ 
ing.  She  said  nothing  at  first ;  she  only  opened  her  apron 
and  looked  down  at  her  apricots  and  sweetmeats.  Then  she 
looked  up  at  him  again,  and  said  complainiugly,  — 

“  I  thought  you  would  have  some,  and  we  could  sit  down 
under  a  tree  outside  the  gate,  and  eat  them  together.” 

“  Tessa,  Tessa,  you  little  siren,  you  would  ruin  me,”  said 
Tito,  laughing,  and  kissing  both  her  cheeks.  “I  ought  to  have 
been  in  the  Via  de’  Bardi  long  ago.  No  !  I  must  go  back 
now  ;  you  are  in  no  danger.  There  — ^  I  ’ll  take  an  apricot. 
Addio !  ” 

He  had  already  stepped  two  yards  from  her  when  he  said 
the  last  word.  Tessa  could  not  have  spoken ;  she  was  pale, 
and  a  great  sob  was  rising ;  but  she  turned  round  as  if  she  felt 
there  was  no  hope  for  her,  and  stepped  on,  holding  her  apron 
so  forgetfully  that  the  apricots  began  to  roll  out  on  the  grass. 

Tito  could  not  help  looking  after  her,  and  seeing  her  shoul¬ 
ders  rise  to  the  bursting  sob,  and  the  apricots  fall  —  could  not 
help  going  after  her  and  picking  them  up.  It  was  very  hard 
upon  him  :  he  was  a  long  way  off  the  Via  de’  Bardi,  and  very 
near  to  Tessa. 

“  See,  my  silly  one,”  he  said,  picking  up  the  apricots. 
“  Come,  leave  off  crying ;  I  will  go  with  you,  and  we  ’ll  sit 
down  under  the  tree.  Come,  I  don’t  like  to  see  you  cry ;  but 
you  know  I  must  go  back  some  time.” 

So  it  came  to  pass  that  they  found  a  great  plane-tree  not 
far  outside  the  gates,  and  they  sat  down  under  it,  and  all  the 
feast  was  spread  out  on  Tessa’s  lap,  she  leaning  with  her  back 
against  the  trunk  of  the  tree,  ana  he  stretched  opposite  to  her, 


UNDER  THE  PLANE-TREE. 


117 


resting  his  elbows  on  the  rough  green  growth  cherished  by 
the  shade,  while  the  sunlight  stole  through  the  boughs  and 
played  about  them  like  a  winged  thing.  Tessa’s  face  was  all 
contentment  again,  and  the  taste  of  the  apricots  and  sweet¬ 
meats  seemed  very  good. 

“  You  pretty  bird !  ”  said  Tito,  looking  at  her  as  she  sat 
eying  the  remains  of  the  feast  with  an  evident  mental  debate 
about  saving  them,  since  he  had  said  he  would  not  have  any 
more.  “  To  think  of  any  one  scolding  you  !  What  sins  do 
you  tell  of  at  confession  ?  ” 

“Oh,  a  great  many.  I  am  often  naughty.  I  don’t  like 
work,  and  I  can’t  help  being  idle,  though  I  know  I  shall  be 
beaten  and  scolded;  and  I  give  the  mules  the  best  fodder 
when  nobody  sees  me,  and  then  when  the  Madre  is  angry  I  say 
I  did  n’t  do  it,  and  that  makes  me  frightened  at  the  devil.  I 
think  the  conjurer  was  the  devil.  I  am  not  so  frightened  after 
I ’ve  been  to  confession.  And  see,  I ’ve  got  a  Breve  here  that 
a  good  father,  who  came  to  Prato  preaching  this  Easter,  blessed 
and  gave  us  all.”  Here  Tessa  drew  from  her  bosom  a  tiny  bag 
carefully  fastened  up.  “  And  I  think  the  Holy  Madonna  will 
take  care  of  me ;  she  looks  as  if  she  would ;  and  perhaps  if 
I  was  n’t  idle,  she  would  n’t  let  me  be  beaten.” 

“  If  they  are  so  cruel  to  you,  Tessa,  should  n’t  you  like  to 
leave  them,  and  go  and  live  with  a  beautiful  lady  who  would 
be  kind  to  you,  if  she  would  have  you  to  wait  upon  her  ?  ” 

Tessa  seemed  to  hold  her  breath  for  a  moment  or  two. 
Then  she  said,  doubtfully,  “  I  don’t  know.” 

“  Then  should  you  like  to  be  my  little  servant,  and  live  with 
me  ?  ”  said  Tito,  smiling.  He  meant  no  more  than  to  see  what 
sort  of  pretty  look  and  answer  she  would  give. 

There  was  a  flush  of  joy  immediately.  “Will  you  take  me 
with  you  now  ?  Ah !  I  should  n’t  go  home  and  be  beaten 
then.”  She  paused  a  little  while,  and  then  added,  more  doubt¬ 
fully,  “But  I  should  like  to  fetch  my  black-faced  kid.” 

“Yes,  you  must  go  back  to  your  kid,  my  Tessa,”  said  Tito, 
rising,  “and  I  must  go  the  other  way.” 

“By  Jupiter  !  ”  he  added,  as  he  went  from  binder  the  shade 
of  the  tree,  “  it  is  not  a  pleasant  time  of  day  to  walk  from 


118 


EOMOLA. 


here  to  the  Via  de’  Bardi ;  I  am  more  inclined  to  lie  down  and 
sleep  in  this  shade.” 

It  ended  so.  Tito  had  an  unconquerable  aversion  to  any¬ 
thing  unpleasant,  even  when  an  object  very  much  loved  and 
desired  was  on  the  other  side  of  it.  He  had  risen  early  ;  had 
waited ;  had  seen  sights,  and  had  been  already  walking  in  the 
sun  ;  he  was  inclined  for  a  siesta,  and  inclined  all  the  more 
because  little  Tessa  was  there,  and  seemed  to  make  the  air 
softer.  He  lay  down  on  the  grass  again,  putting  his  cap  under 
his  head  on  a  green  tuft  by  the  side  of  Tessa.  That  was  not 
quite  comfortable ;  so  he  moved  again,  and  asked  Tessa  to  let 
him  rest  his  head  against  her  lap ;  and  in  that  way  he  soon 
fell  asleep.  Tessa  sat  quiet  as  a  dove  on  its  nest,  just  ventur¬ 
ing,  when  he  was  fast  asleep,  to  touch  the  wonderful  dark 
curls  that  fell  backward  from  his  ear.  She  was  too  happy  to 
go  to  sleep  —  too  happy  to  think  that  Tito  would  wake  up,  and 
that  then  he  would  leave  her,  and  she  must  go  home.  It  takes 
very  little  water  to  make  a  perfect  pool  for  a  tiny  fish,  where 
it  will  find  its  world  and  paradise  all  in  one,  and  never  have 
a  presentiment  of  the  dry  bank.  The  fretted  summer  shade, 
and  stillness,  and  the  gentle  breathing  of  some  loved  life  near 
—  it  would  be  paradise  to  us  all,  if  eager  thought,  the  strong 
angel  with  the  implacable  brow,  had  not  long  since  closed  the 
gates. 

It  really  was  a  long  while  before  the  waking  came  —  before 
the  long  dark  eyes  opened  at  Tessa,  first  with  a  little  sur¬ 
prise,  and  then  with  a  smile,  which  was  soon  quenched  by  some 
preoccupying  thought.  Tito’s  deeper  sleep  had  broken  into  a 
doze,  in  which  he  felt  himself  in  the  Via  de’  Bardi,  explaining 
his  failure  to  appear  at  the  appointed  time.  The  clear  images 
of  that  doze  urged  him  to  start  up  at  once  to  a  sitting  posture, 
and  as  he  stretched  his  arms  and  shook  his  cap,  he  said  — 

“Tessa,  little  one,  you  have  let  me  sleep  too  long.  My 
hunger  and  the  shadows  together  tell  me  that  the  sun  has  done 
much  travel  since  I  fell  asleep.  I  must  lose  no  more  time. 
Addio,”  he  ended,  patting  her  cheek  with  one  hand,  and  settling 
nis  cap  with  the  other. 

She  said  nothing,  but  there  were  signs  in  her  face  which 


UNDER  THE  PLANE-TREE.  119 

made  him  speak  again  in  as  serious  and  as  chiding  a  tone  as 
he  could  command  — 

‘‘  Now,  Tessa,  you  must  not  cry.  I  shall  be  angry  ;  I  shall 
not  love  you  if  you  cry.  You  must  go  home  to  your  black¬ 
faced  kid,  or  if  you  like  you  may  go  back  to  the  gate  and  see 
the  horses  start.  But  I  can  stay  with  you  no  longer,  and  if 
you  cry,  I  shall  think  you  are  troublesome  to  me.” 

The  rising  tears  were  checked  by  terror  at  this  change  in 
Tito’s  voice.  Tessa  turned  very  pale,  and  sat  in  trembling 
silence,  with  her  blue  eyes  widened  by  arrested  tears. 

‘‘Look  now,”  Tito  went  on,  soothingly,  opening  the  wallet 
that  hung  at  his  belt,  “  here  is  a  pretty  charm  that  I  have  had 
a  long  while  —  ever  since  I  was  in  Sicily,  a  country  a  long  way 
off.” 

His  wallet  had  many  little  matters  in  it  mingled  with  small 
coins,  and  he  had  the  usual  difficulty  in  laying  his  finger  on 
the  right  thing.  He  unhooked  his  wallet,  and  turned  out  the 
contents  on  Tessa’s  lap.  Among  them  was  his  onyx  ring. 

“  Ah,  my  ring !  ”  he  exclaimed,  slipping  it  on  the  forefinger 
of  his  right  hand.  “  I  forgot  to  put  it  on  again  this  morning. 
Strange,  I  never  missed  it !  See,  Tessa,”  he  added,  as  he  spread 
out  the  smaller  articles,  and  selected  the  one  he  was  in  search 
of.  “  See  this  pretty  little  pointed  bit  of  red  coral  —  like  jmur 
goat’s  horn,  is  it  not  ?  —  and  here  is  a  hole  in  it,  so  you  can  put 
it  on  the  cord  round  your  neck  along  with  your  Breve,  and 
then  the  evil  spirits  can’t  hurt  you :  if  you  ever  see  them  com¬ 
ing  in  the  shadow  round  the  corner,  point  this  little  coral  horn 
at  them,  and  they  will  run  away.  It  is  a  ‘  buona  fortuna,’  and 
will  keep  you  from  harm  when  I  am  not  with  you.  Come, 
undo  the  cord.” 

Tessa  obeyed  with  a  tranquillizing  sense  that  life  was  going 
to  be  something  quite  new,  and  that  Tito  would  be  with  her 
often.  All  who  remember  their  childhood  remember  the 
strange  vague  sense,  when  some  new  experience  came,  that 
everything  else  was  going  to  be  changed,  and  that  there  would 
be  no  lapse  into  the  old  monotony.  So  the  bit  of  coral  was 
hung  beside  the  tiny  bag  with  the  scrap  of  scrawled  parchment 
in  it,  and  Tessa  felt  braver. 


120 


ROMOLA. 


“  And  now  you  will  give  me  a  kiss,”  said  Tito,  economizing 
time  by  speaking  while  he  swept  in  the  contents  of  the  wallet 
and  hung  it  at  his  waist  again,  “  and  look  happy,  like  a  good 
girl,  and  then  —  ” 

But  Tessa  had  obediently  put  forward  her  lips  in  a  moment, 
and  kissed  his  cheek  as  he  hung  down  his  head. 

“  Oh,  you  pretty  pigeon  !  ”  cried  Tito,  laughing,  pressing  her 
round  cheeks  with  his  hands,  and  crushing  her  features  to¬ 
gether  so  as  to  give  them  a  general  impartial  kiss. 

Then  he  started  up  and  walked  away,  not  looking  round  till 
he  was  ten  yards  from  her,  when  he  just  turned  and  gave  a 
parting  beck.  Tessa  was  looking  after  him,  but  he  could  see 
that  she  was  making  no  signs  of  distress.  It  was  enough  for 
Tito  if  she  did  not  cry  while  he  was  present.  The  softness  of 
his  nature  required  that  all  sorrow  should  be  hidden  away 
from  him. 

“  I  wonder  when  Romola  will  kiss  my  cheek  in  that  way  ?  ” 
thought  Tito,  as  he  walked  along.  It  seemed  a  tiresome  dis¬ 
tance  now,  and  he  almost  wished  he  had  not  been  so  soft¬ 
hearted,  or  so  tempted  to  linger  in  the  shade.  No  other  excuse 
was  needed  to  Bardo  and  Bomola  than  saying  simply  that  he 
had  been  unexpectedly  hindered  ;  he  felt  confident  their  proud 
delicacy  would  inquire  no  farther.  He  lost  no  time  in  getting 
to  Ognissanti,  and  hastily  taking  some  food  there,  he  crossed 
the  Arno  by  the  Ponte  alia  Carraja,  and  made  his  way  as 
directly  as  possible  towards  the  Via  de’  Bardi. 

But  it  was  the  hour  when  all  the  world  who  meant  to  be  in 
particularly  good  time  to  see  the  Corso  were  returning  from 
the  Borghi,  or  villages  just  outside  the  gates,  where  they  had 
dined  and  reposed  themselves  ;  and  the  thoroughfares  leading 
to  the  bridges  were  of  course  the  issues  towards  which  the 
stream  of  sight-seers  tended.  Just  as  Tito  reached  the  Ponte 
Vecchio  and  the  entrance  of  the  Via  de’  Bardi,  he  was  sud¬ 
denly  urged  back  towards  the  angle  of  the  intersecting  streets. 
A  company  on  horseback,  coming  from  the  Via  Guicciardini, 
and  turning  up  the  Via  de’  Bardi,  had  compelled  the  foot- 
passengers  to  recede  hurriedly.  Tito  had  been  walking,  as  his 
manner  was,  with  the  thumb  of  his  right  hand  resting  in  his 


UNDER  THE  PLANE-TREE. 


121 


belt;  and  as  he  was  thus  forced  to  pause,  and  was  looking 
carelessly  at  the  passing  cavaliers,  he  felt  a  very  thin  cold 
hand  laid  on  his.  He  started  round,  and  saw  the  Dominican 
friar  whose  upturned  face  had  so  struck  him  in  the  morning. 
Seen  closer,  the  face  looked  more  evidently  worn  by  sickness 
and  not  by  age  ;  and  again  it  brought  some  strong  but  indefi¬ 
nite  reminiscences  to  Tito. 

“  Pardon  me,  but  —  from  your  face  and  your  ring  ”  —  said 
the  friar,  in  a  faint  voice,  ‘‘  is  not  your  name  Tito  Melema  ?  ” 

“  Yes,”  said  Tito,  also  speaking  faintly,  doubly  jarred  by 
the  cold  touch  and  the  mystery.  He  was  not  apprehensive  or 
timid  through  his  imagination,  but  through  his  sensations  and 
perceptions  he  could  easily  be  made  to  shrink  and  turn  pale 
like  a  maiden. 

“  Then  I  shall  fulfil  my  commission.” 

The  friar  put  his  hand  under  his  scapulary,  and  drawing 
out  a  small  linen  bag  which  hung  round  his  neck,  took  from 
it  a  bit  of  parchment,  doubled  and  stuck  firmly  together  with 
some  black  adhesive  substance,  and  placed  it  in  Tito’s  hand. 
On  the  outside  was  written  in  Italian,  in  a  small  but  distinct 
character  — 

“  Tito  Melema,  aged  twenty -three,  with  a  dark,  beautiful 
face,  long  dark  curls,  the  brightest  smile,  and  a  large  onyx 
ring  on  his  right  forefinger.” 

Tito  did  not  look  at  the  friar,  but  tremblingly  broke  open 
the  bit  of  parchment.  Inside,  the  words  were  — 

‘‘  I  am  sold  for  a  slave :  I  think  they  are  going  to  take  me 
to  Antioch.  The  gems  alone  will  serve  to  ransom  me.” 

Tito  looked  round  at  the  friar,  but  could  only  ask  a  question 
with  his  eyes. 

“  I  had  it  at  Corinth,”  the  friar  said,  speaking  with  diffi¬ 
culty,  like  one  whose  small  strength  had  been  overtaxed  — 
“  I  had  it  from  a  man  who  was  dying.” 

“  He  is  dead,  then  ?  ”  said  Tito,  with  a  bounding  of  the 
heart. 

‘‘Not  the  writer.  The  man  who  gave  it  me  was  a  pilgrim, 
like  myself,  to  whom  the  writer  had  intrusted  it,  because  he 
was  journeying  to  Italy.” 


122 


ROMOLA. 


“  You  know  tke  contents  ?  ” 

“  I  do  not  know  them,  but  I  conjecture  them.  Your  friend 
is  in  slavery  :  you  will  go  and  release  him.  But  I  am  unable 
to  talk  now.”  The  friar,  whose  voice  had  become  feebler 
and  feebler,  sank  down  on  the  stone  bench  against  the  wall 
from  which  he  had  risen  to  touch  Tito’s  hand,  adding  — 

I  am  at  San  Marco  j  my  name  is  Fra  Luca.” 


CHAPTER  XL 

TITO’s  DILEMMA. 

When  Fra  Luca  had  ceased  to  speak,  Tito  still  stood  by 
him  in  irresolution,  and  it  was  not  till,  the  pressure  of  the  pas¬ 
sengers  being  removed,  the  friar  rose  and  walked  slowly  into 
the  church  of  Santa  Felicita,  that  Tito  also  went  on  his  way 
along  the  Via  de’  Bardi. 

“  If  this  monk  is  a  Florentine,”  he  said  to  himself,  “  if  he 
is  going  to  remain  at  Florence,  everything  must  be  disclosed.” 
He  felt  that  a  new  crisis  had  come,  but  he  was  not,  for  all  that, 
too  evidently  agitated  to  pay  his  visit  to  Bardo,  and  apologize 
for  his  previous  non-appearance.  Tito’s  talent  for  concealment 
was  being  fast  developed  into  something  less  neutral.  It  was 
still  possible  —  perhaps  it  might  be  inevitable  —  for  him  to 
accept  frankly  the  altered  conditions,  and  avow  Baldassarre’s 
existence  :  but  hardly  without  casting  an  unpleasant  light 
backward  on  his  original  reticence  as  studied  equivocation  in 
order  to  avoid  the  fulfilment  of  a  secretly  recognized  claim, 
to  say  nothing  of  his  quiet  settlement  of  himself  and  invest¬ 
ment  of  his  florins,  when,  it  would  be  clear,  his  benefactor’s 
fate  had  not  been  certified.  It  was  at  least  provisionally 
wise  to  act  as  if  nothing  had  happened,  and  for  the  present 
he  would  suspend  decisive  thought ;  there  was  all  the  night 
for  meditation,  and  no  one  would  know  the  precise  moment  at 
which  he  had  received  the  letter. 


TITO’S  DILEMMA. 


123 


So  he  entered  the  room  on  the  second  story  — where  Eomola 
and  her  father  sat  among  the  parchment  and  the  marble,  aloof 
from  the  life  of  the  streets  on  holidays  as  well  as  on  common 
days  —  with  a  face  only  a  little  less  bright  than  usual,  from 
/■egret  at  appearing  so  late  :  a  regret  which  wanted  no  testi¬ 
mony,  since  he  had  given  up  the  sight  of  the  Corso  in  order  t( 
express  it;  and  then  set  himself  to  throw  extra  animation  ink 
the  evening,  though  all  the  while  his  consciousness  was  a1 
work  like  a  machine  with  complex  action,  leaving  deposits 
quite  distinct  from  the  line  of  talk ;  and  by  the  time  he  de¬ 
scended  the  stone  stairs  and  issued  from  the  grim  door  in  the 
starlight,  his  mind  had  really  reached  a  new  stage  in  its  forma¬ 
tion  of  a  purpose. 

And  when,  the  next  day,  after  he  was  free  from  his  profes¬ 
sorial  work,  he  turned  up  the  Via  del  Cocomero  towards  the 
convent  of  San  Marco,  his  purpose  was  fully  shaped.  He  was 
going  to  ascertain  from  Fra  Luca  precisely  how  much  he  con¬ 
jectured  of  the  truth,  and  on  what  grounds  ho  conjectured  it; 
and,  further,  how  long  he  was  to  remain  at  San  Marco.  And 
on  that  fuller  knowledge  he  hoped  to  mould  a  statement  which 
would  in  any  case  save  him  from  the  necessity  of  quitting 
Florence.  Tito  had  never  had  occasion  to  fabricate  an  in¬ 
genious  lie  before  :  the  occasion  was  come  now  —  the  occasion 
which  circumstance  never  fails  to  beget  on  tacit  falsity  ;  and 
his  ingenuity  was  ready.  For  he  had  convinced  himself  that 
he  was  not  bound  to  go  iii  search  of  Baldassarre.  lie  had 
once  said  that  on  a  fair  assurance  of  his  father’s  existence  and 
whereabout,  he  would  unhesitatingly  go  after  him.  But,  after 
all,  why  was  he  bound  to  go  ?  What,  looked  at  closely,  was 
the  end  of  all  life,  but  to  extract  the  utmost  sum  of  pleasure  ? 
And  was  not  his  own  blooming  life  a  ])ronnse  of  incomparably 
more  pleasure,  not  for  himself  only,  but  for  others,  than  the 
withered  wintry  life  of  a  man  who  was  past  tlie  time  of 
keen  enjoyment,  and  whose  ideas  had  stiffened  into  barren 
rigidity  ?  Those  ideas  had  all  been  sown  in  the  fresh  soil 
of  Tito’s  mind,  and  were  lively  germs  there  :  that  was  the 
proper  order  of  things  —  the  order  of  Nature,  which  treats 
all  maturity  as  a  mere  nidus  for  youth.  Baldassarre  had  done 


124  ROMOLA. 

his  work,  had  had  his  draught  of  life:  Tito  said  it  was  his 
turn  now. 

And  the  prospect  was  so  vague :  —  “I  think  they  are  going 
to  take  me  to  Antioch  :  ”  here  was  a  vista  !  After  a  long  voy¬ 
age,  to  spend  months,  perhaps  years,  in  a  search  for  which  even 
now  there  was  no  guarantee  that  it  would  not  prove  vain :  and 
to  leave  behind  at  starting  a  life  of  distinction  and  love :  and 
to  hnd,  if  he  found  anything,  the  old  exacting  companionship 
which  was  known  by  rote  beforehand.  Certainly  the  gems 
and  therefore  the  florins  were,  in  a  sense,  Baldassarre’s :  in  the 
narrow  sense  by  which  the  right  of  possession  is  determined 
in  ordinary  affairs;  but  in  that  large  and  more  radically  nat¬ 
ural  view  by  which  the  world  belongs  to  youth  and  strength, 
they  were  rather  his  who  could  extract  the  most  pleasure  out 
of  them.  That,  he  was  conscious,  was  not  the  sentiment  which 
the  complicated  play  of  human  feelings  had  engendered  in 
society.  The  men  around  him  would  expect  that  he  should 
immediately  apply  those  florins  to  his  benefactor’s  rescue. 
But  what  was  the  sentiment  of  society  ?  —  a  mere  tangle  of 
anomalous  traditions  and  opinions,  which  no  wise  man  would 
take  as  a  guide,  except  so  far  as  his  own  comfort  was  con¬ 
cerned.  Not  that  he  cared  for  the  florins,  save  perhaps  for 
Bomola’s  sake  :  he  would  give  up  the  florins  readily  enough. 
It  was  the  joy  that  was  due  to  him  and  was  close  to  his  lips, 
which  he  felt  he  was  not  bound  to  thrust  away  from  him  and  so 
travel  on,  thirsting.  Any  maxims  that  required  a  man  to  fling 
away  the  good  that  was  needed  to  make  existence  sweet,  were 
only  the  lining  of  human  selfishness  turned  outward :  they 
were  made  by  men  who  wanted  others  to  sacrifice  themselves 
for  their  sake.  He  would  rather  that  Baldassarre  should  not 
suffer  :  he  liked  no  one  to  suffer ;  but  could  any  philosophy 
prove  to  him  that  he  was  bound  to  care  for  another’s  suffering 
more  than  for  his  own  ?  To  do  so,  he  must  have  loved  Baldas¬ 
sarre  devotedly,  and  he  did  not  love  him  :  was  that  his  own 
fault  ?  Gratitude  !  seen  closely,  it  made  no  valid  claim  :  his 
father’s  life  would  have  been  dreary  without  him :  are  we 
convicted  of  a  debt  to  men  for  the  pleasures  they  give  them¬ 
selves  ? 


TITOS  DILEMMA. 


125 


Having  once  begun  to  explain  away  Baldassarre’s  claim, 
Tito’s  thought  showed  itself  as  active  as  a  virulent  acid,  eating 
its  rapid  way  through  all  the  tissues  of  sentiment.  His  mind 
was  destitute  of  that  dread  which  has  been  erroneously  decried 
as  if  it  were  nothing  higher  than  a  man’s  animal  care  for  his 
own  skin :  that  awe  of  the  Divine  Nemesis  which  was  felt  by 
religious  pagans,  and,  though  it  took  a  more  positive  form 
under  Christianity,  is  still  felt  by  the  mass  of  mankind  simply 
as  a  vague  fear  at  anything  which  is  called  wrong-doing.  Such 
terror  of  the  unseen  is  so  far  above  mere  sensual  cowardice 
tliat  it  will  annihilate  that  cowardice;  it  is  the  initial  recogni¬ 
tion  of  a  moral  law  restraining  desire,  and  checks  the  hard 
bold  scrutiny  of  imperfect  thought  into  obligations  which  can 
never  be  proved  to  have  any  sanctity  in  the  absence  of  feeling. 
“  It  is  good,”  sing  the  old  Eumenides,  in  ,/Eschylus,  that  fear 
should  sit  as  the  guardian  of  the  soul,  forcing  it  into  wisdom 
—  good  that  men  should  carry  a  threatening  shadow  in  their 
hearts  under  the  full  sunshine ;  else,  how  should  they  learn  to 
revere  the  right  ?  ”  That  guardianship  may  become  needless  ; 
but  only  when  all  outward  law  has  become  needless  —  only 
when  duty  and  love  have  united  in  one  stream  and  made  a 
common  force. 

As  Tito  entered  the  outer  cloister  of  San  Marco  and  inquired 
for  Fra  Luca,  there  was  no  shadowy  presentiment  in  his  mind : 
he  felt  himself  too  cultured  and  sceptical  for  that :  he  had 
been  nurtured  in  contempt  for  the  tales  of  priests  whose  im¬ 
pudent  lives  were  a  proverb,  and  in  erudite  familiarity  with 
disputes  concerning  the  Chief  Good,  which  had  after  all,  he 
considered,  left  it  a  matter  of  taste.  Yet  fear  was  a  strong 
element  in  Tito’s  nature  —  the  fear  of  what  he  believed  or 
saw  was  likely  to  rob  him  of  pleasure :  and  he  had  a  definite 
fear  that  Fra  Luca  might  be  the  means  of  driving  him  from 
Florence. 

“  Fra  Luca  ?  ah,  he  is  gone  to  Fiesole  —  to  the  Dominican 
monastery  there.  He  was  taken  on  a  litter  in  the  cool  of  the 
morning.  The  poor  Brother  is  very  ill.  Could  you  leave  a 
message  for  him  ?  ” 

This  answer  was  given  by  a  fra  converso,  or  lay  brother, 


126 


ROMOLA. 


whose  accent  told  plainly  that  he  was  a  raw  contadino,  and 
whose  dull  glance  implied  no  curiosity. 

“  Thanks  5  my  business  can  wait.” 

Tito  turned  away  with  a  sense  of  relief.  “  This  friar  is  not 
likely  to  live/’  he  said  to  himself.  I  saw  he  was  worn  to  a 
shadow.  And  at  Fiesole  there  will  be  nothing  to  recall  me  to 
his  mind.  Besides,  if  he  should  come  back,  my  explanation 
will  serve  as  well  then  as  now.  But  I  wish  I  knew  what  it 
wa«  that  his  face  recalled  to  me.” 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE  PRIZE  IS  NEARLY  GRASPED. 

Tito  walked  along  with  a  light  step,  for  the  immediate  fear 
had  vanished;  the  usual  joyousness  of  his  disposition  reas- 
sumed  its  predominance,  and  he  was  going  to  see  Romola. 
Yet  Roinola’s  life  seemed  an  image  of  that  loving,  pitying 
devotedness,  that  patient  endurance  of  irksome  tasks,  from 
which  he  had  shrunk  and  excused  himself.  But  he  was  not 
out  of  love  with  goodness,  or  prepared  to  plunge  into  vice  :  he 
was  in  his  fresh  youth,  with  soft  pulses  for  all  charm  and  love¬ 
liness  ;  he  had  still  a  healthy  appetite  for  ordinary  human 
joys,  and  the  poison  could  only  work  by  degrees.  He  had  sold 
himself  to  evil,  but  at  present  life  seemed  so  nearly  the  same 
to  him  that  he  was  not  conscious  of  the  bond.  He  meant  all 
things  to  go  on  as  they  had  done  before,  both  within  and  with¬ 
out  him  :  he  meant  to  win  golden  opinions  by  meritorious  exer¬ 
tion,  by  ingenious  learning,  by  amiable  compliance  :  he  was 
not  going  to  do  anything  that  would  throw  him  out  of  harmony 
with  the  beings  he  cared  for.  And  he  cared  supremely  for 
Romola ;  he  wished  to  have  her  for  his  beautiful  and  loving 
wife.  There  might  be  a  wealthier  alliance  within  the  ultimate 
reach  of  successful  accomplishments  like  his,  but  there  was 
no  woman  in  all  Florence  like  Romola.  When  she  was  near 


THE  PRIZE  IS  NEARLY  GRASPED. 


127 


him,  and  looked  at  him  with  her  sincere  hazel  eyes,  he  was 
subdued  by  a  delicious  influence  as  strong  and  inevitable  as 
those  musical  vibrations  which  take  possession  of  us  with  a 
rhythmic  empire  that  no  sooner  ceases  than  we  desire  it  to 
begin  again. 

As  he  trod  the  stone  stairs,  when  he  was  still  outside  the 
door,  with  no  one  but  Maso  near  him,  the  influence  seemed  to 
have  begun  its  work  by  the  mere  nearness  of  anticipation. 

“Welcome,  Tito  mio,’’  said  the  old  man’s  voice,  before  Tito 
had  spoken.  There  was  a  new  vigor  in  the  voice,  a  new  cheer¬ 
fulness  in  the  blind  face,  since  that  first  interview  more  than 
two  months  ago.  “  You  have  brought  fresh  manuscript, 
doubtless ;  but  since  we  were  talking  last  night  I  have  had 
new  ideas ;  we  must  take  a  wider  scope  —  we  must  go  back 
upon  our  footsteps.” 

Tito,  paying  his  homage  to  E-omola  as  he  advanced,  went, 
as  his  custom  was,  straight  to  Bardo’s  chair,  and  put  his  hand 
in  the  palm  that  was  held  to  receive  it,  placing  himself  on  the 
cross-legged  leather  seat  with  scrolled  ends,  close  to  Bardo’s 
elbow. 

“Yes,”  he  said,  in  his  gentle  way;  “I  have  brought  the  new 
manuscript,  but  that  can  wait  your  pleasure.  I  have  young 
limbs,  you  know,  and  can  walk  back  up  the  hill  without  any 
difiiculty.” 

He  did  not  look  at  Romola  as  he  said  this,  but  he  knew 
quite  well  that  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  him  with  delight. 

“  That  is  well  said,  my  son.”  Bardo  had  already  addressed 
Tito  in  this  way  once  or  twice  of  late.  “  And  I  perceive  with 
gladness  that  you  do  not  shrink  from  labor,  without  which,  the 
poet  has  wisely  said,  life  has  given  nothing  to  mortals.  It  is 
too  often  the  ‘  palma  sine  pulvere,’  the  prize  of  glory  without 
the  dust  of  the  race,  that  attracts  young  ambition.  But  what 
says  the  Greek  ?  ‘  In  the  morning  of  life,  work ;  in  the  mid¬ 

day,  give  counsel ;  in  the  evening,  pray.’  It  is  true,  I  might 
be  thought  to  have  reached  that  helpless  evening ;  but  not  so, 
while  I  have  counsel  within  me  which  is  yet  unspoken.  For 
my  mind,  as  I  have  often  said,  was  shut  up  as  by  a  dam ;  the 
plenteous  waters  lay  dark  and  motionless ;  but  you,  my  Tito, 


128 


ROMOLA. 


have  opened  a  duct  for  them,  and  the}^  rush  forward  with  a 
force  that  surprises  myself.  And  now,  what  I  want  is,  that 
we  should  go  over  our  preliminary  ground  again,  with  a  wider 
scheme  of  comment  and  illustration:  otherwise  I  may  lose 
opportunities  which  I  now  see  retrospectively,  and  which  may 
never  occur  again.  You  mark  what  I  am  saying,  Tito  ?  ” 

He  had  just  stooped  to  reach  his  manuscript,  which  had 
rolled  down,  and  Bardo’s  jealous  ear  was  alive  to  the  slight 
movement. 

Tito  might  have  been  excused  for  shrugging  his  shoulders 
at  the  prospect  before  him,  but  he  was  not  naturally  impatient; 
moreover,  he  had  been  bred  up  in  that  laborious  erudition, 
at  once  minute  and  copious,  which  was  the  chief  intellectual 
task  of  the  age ;  and  with  Romola  near,  he  was  floated  along 
by  waves  of  agreeable  sensation  that  made  everything  seem 
easy. 

‘‘  Assuredly,”  he  said  ;  “  you  wish  to  enlarge  your  comments 
on  certain  passages  we  have  cited.” 

“  Not  only  so ;  I  wish  to  introduce  an  occasional  excursus, 
where  we  have  noticed  an  author  to  whom  I  have  given  spe¬ 
cial  study  ;  for  I  may  die  too  soon  to  achieve  any  separate 
work.  And  this  is  not  a  time  for  scholarly  integrity  and  well- 
sifted  learning  to  lie  idle,  when  it  is  not  only  rash  ignorance 
that  we  have  to  fear,  but  when  there  are  men  like  Calderino, 
who,  as  Poliziano  has  well  shown,  have  recourse  to  impudent 
falsities  of  citation  to  serve  the  ends  of  their  vanity  and  secure 
a  triumph  to  their  own  mistakes.  Wherefore,  my  Tito,  I 
think  it  not  well  that  we  should  let  slip  the  occasion  that  lies 
under  our  hands.  And  now  we  will  turn  back  to  the  point 
where  we  have  cited  the  passage  from  Thucydides,  and  I  wish 
you,  by  way  of  preliminary,  to  go  with  me  through  all  my 
notes  on  the  Latin  translation  made  by  Lorenzo  Valla,  for 
which  the  incomparable  Pope  Nicholas  V.  —  with  whose  per¬ 
sonal  notice  I  was  honored  while  I  was  yet  young,  and  when 
he  was  still  Thomas  of  Sarzana  —  paid  him  (I  say  not  unduly) 
the  sum  of  five  hundred  gold  scudi.  But  inasmuch  as  Valla, 
though  otherwise  of  dubious  fame,  is  held  in  high  honor  for 
his  severe  scholarship,  whence  the  epigrammatist  has  jocosely 


THE  PRIZE  IS  NEARLY  GRASPED. 


129 


said  of  him  that  since  he  went  among  the  shades,  Pluto  him¬ 
self  has  not  dared  to  speak  in  the  ancient  languages,  it  is  the 
more  needful  that  his  name  shonld  not  be  as  a  stamp  warrant¬ 
ing  false  wares ;  and  therefore  I  would  introduce  an  excursus 
on  Thucydides,  wherein  my  castigations  of  Valla’s  text  may 
find  a  fitting  place.  My  Pomola,  thou  wilt  reach  the  needful 
volumes  —  thou  knowest  them  —  on  the  fifth  shelf  of  the 
cabinet.” 

Tito  rose  at  the  same  moment  with  Eomola,  saying,  ‘‘I  will 
reach  them,  if  you  will  point  them  out,”  and  followed  her 
hastily  into  the  adjoining  small  room,  where  the  walls  were 
also  covered  with  ranges  of  books  in  perfect  order. 

“There  they  are,”  said  Eomola,  pointing  upward;  “every 
book  is  just  where  it  was  when  my  father  ceased  to  see 
them.” 

Tito  stood  by  her  without  hastening  to  reach  the  books. 
They  had  never  been  in  this  room  together  before. 

“I  hope,”  she  continued,  turning  her  eyes  full  on  Tito,  with 
a  look  of  grave  confidence  —  “I  hope  he  will  not  weary  you ; 
this  work  makes  him  so  happy.” 

“  And  me  too,  Eomola  —  if  you  will  only  let  me  say,  I  love 
you  —  if  you  will  only  think  me  worth  loving  a  little.” 

His  speech  was  the  softest  murmur,  and  the  dark  beautiful 
face,  nearer  to  hers  than  it  had  ever  been  before,  was  looking 
at  her  with  beseeching  tenderness. 

“  I  do  love  you,”  murmured  Eomola ;  she  looked  at  him 
with  the  same  simple  majesty  as  ever,  but  her  voice  had  never 
in  her  life  before  sunk  to  that  murmur.  It  seemed  to  them 
both  that  they  were  looking  at  each  other  a  long  while  before 
her  lips  moved  again ;  yet  it  was  but  a  moment  till  she  said, 
“  I  know  now  what  it  is  to  be  happy.” 

The  faces  just  met,  and  the  dark  curls  mingled  for  an  in¬ 
stant  with  the  rippling  gold.  Quick  as  lightning  after  that, 
Tito  set  his  foot  on  a  projecting  ledge  of  the  book-shelves  and 
reached  down  the  needful  volumes.  They  were  both  contented 
to  be  silent  and  separate,  for  that  first  blissful  experience  of 
mutual  consciousness  was  all  the  more  exquisite  for  being 
unperturbed  by  immediate  sensation. 

VOL.  V  9 


m 


ROMOLA. 


It  had  all  been  as  rapid  as  the  irreversible  mingling  of 
waters,  for  even  the  eager  a,nd  jealous  Bardo  had  not  become 
impatient. 

‘‘You  have  the  volumes,  my  Romola?”  the  old  man  said, 
as  they  came  near  him  again.  “  And  now  you  will  get  your 
pen  ready  ;  for,  as  Tito  marks  off  the  scholia  we  determine  on 
extracting,  it  will  be  well  for  you  to  copy  them  without  delay 
—  numbering  them  carefully,  mind,  to  correspond  with  the 
numbers  in  the  text  which  he  will  write,” 

Romola  always  had  some  task  which  gave  her  a  share  in 
this  joint  work.  Tito  took  his  stand  at  the  leggio,  where  he 
both  wrote  and  read,  and  she  placed  herself  at  a  table  just  in 
front  of  him,  where  she  was  ready  to  give  into  her  father’s 
hands  anything  that  he  might  happen  to  want,  or  relieve  him 
of  a  volume  that  he  had  done  with.  They  had  always  been  in 
that  position  since  the  work  began,  yet  on  this  day  it  seemed 
new ;  it  was  so  different  now  for  them  to  be  opposite  each 
other ;  so  different  for  Tito  to  take  a  book  from  her,  as  she 
lifted  it  from  her  father’s  knee.  Yet  there  was  no  finesse  to 
secure  an  additional  look  or  touch.  Each  woman  creates  in 
her  own  likeness  the  love-tokens  that  are  offered  to  her ;  and 
Romola’s  deep  calm  happiness  encompassed  Tito  like  the  rich 
but  quiet  evening  light  which  dissipates  all  unrest. 

They  had  been  two  hours  at  their  work,  and  were  just  de¬ 
sisting  because  of  the  fading  light,  when  the  door  opened  and 
there  entered  a  figure  strangely  incongruous  with  the  current 
of  their  thoughts  and  with  the  suggestions  of  every  object 
around  them.  It  was  the  figure  of  a  short  stout  black-eyed 
woman,  about  fifty,  wearing  a  black  velvet  berretta,  or  close 
cap,  embroidered  with  pearls,  under  which  surprisingly  mas¬ 
sive  black  braids  surmounted  the  little  bulging  forehead,  and 
fell  in  rich  plaited  curves  over  the  ears,  while  an  equally  sur¬ 
prising  carmine  tint  on  the  upper  region  of  the  fat  cheeks 
contrasted  with  the  surrounding  sallowness.  Three  rows  of 
pearls  and  a  lower  necklace  of  gold  reposed  on  the  horizontal 
cushion  of  her  neck ;  the  embroidered  border  of  her  trailing 
black  velvet  gown  and  her  embroidered  long-drooping  sleeves 
of  rose-colored  damask  were  slightly  faded,  but  they  con- 


THE  PRIZE  IS  NEARLY  GRASPED. 


ISl 


veyed  to  the  initiated  eye  the  satisfactory  assurance  that  they 
were  the  splendid  result  of  six  months’  labor  by  a  skilled 
workman  ;  and  the  rose-colored  petticoat,  with  its  dimmed 
white  fringe  and  seed-pearl  arabesques,  was  duly  exhibited  in 
order  to  suggest  a  similar  pleasing  reflection.  A  handsome 
coral  rosary  hung  from  one  side  of  an  inferential  belt,  which 
emerged  into  certainty  with  a  large  clasp  of  silver  wrought  in 
niello;  and,  on  the  other  side,  where  the  belt  again  became 
inferential,  hung  a  scarsella,  or  large  purse,  of  crimson  velvet, 
stitched  with  pearls.  Her  little  fat  right  hand,  which  looked 
as  if  it  had  been  made  of  paste,  and  had  risen  out  of  shape 
under  partial  baking,  held  a  small  book  of  devotions,  also 
splendid  with  velvet,  pearls,  and  silver. 

The  figure  was  already  too  familiar  to  Tito  to  be  startling, 
for  Monna  Brigida  was  a  frequent  visitor  at  Bardo’s,  being 
excepted  from  the  sentence  of  banishment  passed  on  feminine 
triviality,  on  the  ground  of  her  cousinship  to  his  dead  wife  and 
her  early  care  for  Roniola,  who  now  looked  round  at  her  with 
an  affectionate  smile,  and  rose  to  draw  the  leather  seat  to  a 
due  distance  from  her  father’s  chair,  that  the  coming  gush  of 
talk  might  not  be  too  near  his  ear. 

“  La  cugina  f  ”  said  Bardo,  interrogatively,  detecting  the 
short  steps  and  the  sweeping  drapery. 

“  Yes,  it  is  your  cousin,”  said  Monna  Brigida,  in  an  alert 
voice,  raising  her  fingers  smilingly  at  Tito,  and  then  lifting  up 
her  face  to  be  kissed  by  Romola.  “  Always  the  troublesome 
cousin  breaking  in  on  your  wisdom,”  she  went  on,  seating  her¬ 
self  and  beginning  to  fan  herself  with  the  white  veil  hanging 
over  her  arm.  ‘‘  Well,  well ;  if  I  did  n’t  bring  you  some  news 
of  the  world  now  and  then,  I  do  believe  you ’d  forget  there 
was  anything  in  life  but  these  mouldy  ancients,  who  want 
sprinkling  with  holy  water  if  all  I  hear  about  them  is  true. 
Not  but  what  the  world  is  bad  enough  nowadays,  for  the  scan¬ 
dals  that  turn  up  under  one’s  nose  at  every  corner  —  I  don’t 
want  to  hear  and  see  such  things,  but  one  can’t  go  about  with 
one’s  head  in  a  bag;  and  it  was  only  yesterday  —  well,  well, 
you  need  n’t  burst  out  at  me,  Bardo,  I  am  not  going  to  tell 
anything ;  if  I ’m  not  as  wise  as  the  three  kings,  1  know  how 


132 


ROMOLA. 


many  legs  go  into  one  boot.  But,  nevertheless,  Florence  is  a 
wicked  city  —  is  it  not  true,  Messer  Tito  ?  for  you  go  into  the 
world.  N ot  but  what  one  must  sin  a  little  —  Messer  Domeneddio 
expects  that  of  us,  else  what  are  the  blessed  sacraments  for  ? 
And  what  I  say  is,  we  Ve  got  to  reverence  the  saints,  and  not 
to  set  ourselves  up  as  if  we  could  be  like  them,  else  life  would 
be  unbearable ;  as  it  will  be  if  things  go  on  after  this  new 
fashion.  For  what  do  you  think  ?  I ’ve  been  at  the  wedding 
to-day  —  Dianora  Acciajoli’s  with  the  young  Albizzi  that  there 
has  been  so  much  talk  of  —  and  everybody  wondered  at  its 
being  to-day  instead  of  yesterday ;  but,  cieli !  such  a  wedding 
as  it  was  might  have  been  put  off  till  the  next  Quaresima  for 
a  penance.  For  there  was  the  bride  looking  like  a  white  nun 
—  not  so  much  as  a  pearl  about  her  —  and  the  bridegroom  as 
solemn  as  San  Giuseppe.  It ’s  true  !  And  half  the  people 
invited  were  Piagnoni  —  they  call  them  piagnoni  ^  now,  these 
new  saints  of  Fra  Girolamo’s  making.  And  to  think  of  two 
families  like  the  Albizzi  and  the  Acciajoli  taking  up  such  no¬ 
tions,  when  they  could  afford  to  wear  the  best !  Well,  well, 
they  invited  me  —  but  they  could  do  no  other,  seeing  my  hus¬ 
band  was  Luca  Antonio’s  uncle  by  the  mother’s  side  —  and  a 
pretty  time  I  had  of  it  while  we  waited  under  the  canopy  in 
front  of  the  house,  before  they  let  us  in.  I  could  n’t  stand  in 
my  clothes,  it  seemed,  without  giving  offence ;  for  there  was 
Monna  Berta,  who  has  had  worse  secrets  in  her  time  than  any 
I  could  tell  of  myself,  looking  askance  at  me  from  under  her 
hood  like  a  pinzochera^  and  telling  me  to  read  the  Frate’s 
book  about  widows,  from  which  she  had  found  great  guidance. 
Holy  Madonna !  it  seems  as  if  widows  had  nothing  to  do  now 
but  to  buy  their  coffins,  and  think  it  a  thousand  years  till  they 
get  into  them,  instead  of  enjoying  themselves  a  little  when 
they ’ve  got  their  hands  free  for  the  first  time.  And  what  do 
you  think  was  the  music  Ave  had,  to  make  our  dinner  lively  ? 
A  long  discourse  from  Fra  Domenico  of  San  Marco,  about  the 
doctrines  of  their  blessed  Fra  Girolamo  —  the  three  doctrines 
we  are  all  to  get  by  heart ;  and  he  kept  marking  them  off  on 

1  Funeral  mourners  :  properly,  paid  mourners. 

2  A  Sister  of  the  Third  Order  of  St.  Francis  :  an  un cloistered  nun. 


THE  PRIZE  IS  NEARLY  GRASPED. 


133 


his  fingers  till  he  made  my  flesh  creep  :  and  the  first  is,  Flor¬ 
ence,  or  the  Church — I  don’t  know  which,  for  first  he  said 
one  and  then  the  other  —  shall  be  scourged ;  but  if  he  means 
the  pestilence,  the  Signory  ought  to  put  a  stop  to  such  preach¬ 
ing,  for  it ’s  enough  to  raise  the  swelling  under  one’s  arms  with 
fright ;  but  then,  after  that,  he  says  Florence  is  to  be  regener¬ 
ated  ;  but  what  will  be  the  good  of  that  when  we  ’re  all  dead 
of  the  plague,  or  something  else  ?  And  then,  the  third  thing, 
and  what  he  said  oftenest,  is,  that  it ’s  all  to  be  in  our  days : 
and  he  marked  that  off  on  his  thumb  till  he  made  me  tremble 
like  the  very  jelly  before  me.  They  had  jellies,  to  be  sure, 
with  the  arms  of  the  Albizzi  and  the  Acciajoli  raised  on  them 
in  all  colors  ;  they ’ve  not  turned  the  world  quite  upside  down 
yet.  But  all  their  talk  is,  that  we  are  to  go  back  to  the  old 
ways  :  for  up  starts  Francesco  Valori,  that  I ’ve  danced  with 
in  the  Via  Larga  when  he  was  a  bachelor  and  as  fond  of  the 
Medici  as  anybody,  and  he  makes  a  speech  about  the  old 
times,  before  the  Florentines  had  left  off  crying  ‘  Popolo  ’  and 
begun  to  cry  ‘  Palle  ’  —  as  if  that  had  anything  to  do  with  a 
wedding  !  —  and  how  we  ought  to  keep  to  the  rules  the  Sig¬ 
nory  laid  down  Heaven  knows  when,  that  we  were  not  to  wear 
this  and  that,  and  not  to  eat  this  and  that  —  and  how  our 
manners  were  corrupted  and  we  read  bad  books ;  though  he 
can’t  say  that  of  me  —  ” 

‘‘  Stop,  cousin !  ”  said  Bardo,  in  his  imperious  tone,  for  he 
had  a  remark  to  make,  and  only  desperate  measures  could 
arrest  the  rattling  lengthiness  of  Monna  Brigida’s  discourse. 
But  now  she  gave  a  little  start,  pursed  up  her  mouth,  and 
looked  at  him  with  round  eyes. 

^‘Francesco  Valori  is  not  altogether  wrong,”  Bardo  went 
on.  Bernardo,  indeed,  rates  him  not  highly,  and  is  rather 
of  opinion  that  he  christens  private  grudges  by  the  name  of 
])ublic  zeal ;  though  I  must  admit  that  my  good  Bernardo  is 
too  slow  of  belief  in  that  unalloyed  patriotism  which  was 
found  in  all  its  lustre  among  the  ancients.  But  it  is  true, 
Tito,  that  our  manners  have  degenerated  somewhat  from  that 
noble  frugality  which,  as  has  been  well  seen  in  the  public  acts 
of  our  citizens,  is  the  parent  of  true  magnificence.  For  men. 


134 


ROMOLA. 


as  I  hear,  will  now  spend  on  the  transient  show  of  a  Giostra 
sums  which  would  suffice  to  found  a  library,  and  confer  a 
lasting  possession  on  mankind.  Still,  I  conceive,  it  remains 
true  of  us  Florentines  that  we  have  more  of  that  magnani¬ 
mous  sobriety  which  abhors  a  trivial  lavishness  that  it  may 
be  grandly  open-handed  on  grand  occasions,  than  can  be  found 
in  any  other  city  of  Italy;  for  I  understand  that  the  Nea¬ 
politan  and  Milanese  courtiers  laugh  at  the  scarcity  of  our 
plate,  and  think  scorn  of  our  great  families  for  borrowing 
from  each  other  that  furniture  of  the  table  at  their  entertain¬ 
ments.  But  in  the  vain  laughter  of  folly  wisdom  hears  half 
its  applause.” 

Laughter,  indeed  !  ”  burst  forth  Monna  Brigida  again,  the 
moment  Bardo  paused.  “  If  anybody  wanted  to  hear  laughter 
at  the  wedding  to-day  they  were  disappointed,  for  when  young 
Niccolo  Macchiavelli  tried  to  make  a  joke,  and  told  stories  out 
of  Franco  Sacchetti’s  book,  how  it  was  no  use  for  the  Signoria 
to  make  rules  for  us  women,  because  we  were  cleverer  than 
all  the  painters,  and  architects,  and  doctors  of  logic  in  the 
world,  for  we  could  make  black  look  white,  and  yellow  look 
pink,  and  crooked  look  straight,  and,  if  anything  was  forbid¬ 
den,  we  could  find  a  new  name  for  it  —  Holy  Virgin  !  the 
Piagnoni  looked  more  dismal  than  before,  and  somebody  said 
Sacchetti’s  book  was  wicked.  Well,  I  don’t  read  it  —  they 
can’t  accuse  me  of  reading  anything.  Save  me  from  going  to 
a  wedding  again,  if  that ’s  to  be  the  fashion  ;  for  all  of  us  who 
were  not  Piagnoni  were  as  comfortable  as  wet  chickens.  I 
was  never  caught  in  a  worse  trap  but  once  before,  and  that 
was  when  I  went  to  hear  their  precious  Prate  last  Quaresima 
in  San  Lorenzo.  Perhaps  I  never  told  you  about  it,  Messer 
Tito  ?  —  it  almost  freezes  my  blood  when  I  think  of  it.  How 
he  rated  us  poor  women  !  and  the  men,  too,  to  tell  the  truth, 
but  I  did  n’t  mind  that  so  much.  He  called  us  cows,  and 
lumps  of  flesh,  and  wantons,  and  mischief-makers  —  and  I 
could  just  bear  that,  for  there  were  plenty  others  more  fleshy 
and  spiteful  than  I  was,  though  every  now  and  then  his 
voice  shook  the  very  bench  under  me  like  a  trumpet ;  but 
then  he  came  to  the  false  hair,  and,  oh,  misericordia !  he 


THE  PRIZE  IS  NEARLY  GRASPED. 


135 


made  a  picture  —  1  see  it  now — of  a  young  woman  lying 
a  pale  corpse,  and  us  light-minded  widows  —  of  course  he 
meant  me  as’well  as  the  rest,  for  I  had  my  plaits  on,  for  if 
one  is  getting  old,  one  does  n’t  want  to  look  as  ugly  as  the 
Befana^  — us  widows  rushing  up  to  the  corpse,  like  bare-pated 
vultures  as  we  were,  and  cutting  off  its  young  dead  hair  to 
deck  our  old  heads  with.  Oh,  the  dreams  1  had  after  that ! 
And  then  he  cried,  and  wrung  his  hands  at  us,  and  I  cried  too. 
And  to  go  home,  and  to  take  off  my  jewels,  this  very  clasp,  and 
everything,  and  to  make  them  into  a  packet,  fu  tutt’uno  ;  and 
I  was  within  a  hair  of  sending  them  to  the  Good  Men  of 
St.  Martin  to  give  to  the  poor,  but,  by  Heaven’s  mercy,  I 
bethought  me  of  going  first  to  my  confessor.  Fra  Cristoforo,  at 
Santa  Croce,  and  he  told  me  how  it  was  all  the  work  of  the 
devil,  this  preaching  and  prophesying  of  their  Fra  Girolamo, 
and  the  Dominicans  were  trying  to  turn  the  world  upside 
down,  and  I  was  never  to  go  and  hear  him  again,  else  1  must 
do  penance  for  it ;  for  the  great  preachers  Fra  Mariano  and 
Fra  Menico  had  shown  how  Fra  Girolamo  preached  lies  —  and 
that  was  true,  for  I  heard  them  both  in  the  Duomo  —  and  how 
the  Pope’s  dream  of  San  Francesco  propping  up  the  Church 
with  his  arms  was  being  fulfilled  still,  and  the  Dominicans 
were  beginning  to  pull  it  down.  Well  and  good:  I  went 
away  con  Dio,  and  made  myself  easy.  I  am  not  going  to  be 
frightened  by  a  Frate  Predicatore  again.  And  all  I  say  is,  I 
wish  it  had  n’t  been  the  Dominicans  that  poor  Dino  joined 
years  ago,  for  then  I  should  have  been  glad  when  I  heard 
them  say  he  was  come  back  —  ” 

Silenzio  !  ”  said  Bardo,  in  a  loud  agitated  voice,  while 
Romola  half  started  from  her  chair,  clasped  her  hands,  and 
looked  round  at  Tito,  as  if  now  she  might  appeal  to  him. 
Monna  Brigida  gave  a  little  scream,  and  bit  her  lip. 

“  Donna  !  ”  said  Bardo,  again,  ‘‘  hear  once  more  my  will. 
Bring  no  reports  about  that  name  to  this  house  ;  and  thou, 
Romola,  I  forbid  thee  to  ask.  My  son  is  dead.” 

^  The  name  given  to  the  grotesque  hlack-faced  figures,  supposed  to  repre¬ 
sent  the  Magi,  carried  about  or  placed  iu  the  ■windows  on  Twelfth  Night :  a 
corruption  of  Epifania. 


13^ 


ROMOLA. 


Bardots  whole  frame  seemed  vibrating  with  passion,  and 
no  one  dared  to  break  silence  again.  Monna  Brigida  lifted 
her  shoulders  and  her  hands  in  mute  dismay  ;  then  she  rose 
as  quietly  as  possible,  gave  many  significant  nods  to  Tito  and 
Komola,  motioning  to  them  that  they  were  not  to  move,  and 
stole  out  of  the  room  like  a  culpable  fat  spaniel  who  has  barked 
unseasonably. 

Meanwhile,  Tito’s  quick  mind  had  been  combining  ideas 
with  lightning-like  rapidity.  Bardo’s  son  was  not  really  dead, 
then,  as  he  had  supposed :  he  was  a  monk ;  he  was  come 
back :  ”  and  Fra  Luca  —  yes !  it  was  the  likeness  to  Bardo 
and  Romola  that  had  made  the  face  seem  half-known  to  him. 

If  he  were  only  dead  at  Fiesole  at  that  moment !  This  impor¬ 
tunate  selfish  wish  inevitably  thrust  itself  before  every  other 
thought.  It  was  true  that  Bardo’s  rigid  will  was  a  sufficient 
safeguard  against  any  intercourse  between  Romola  and  her 
brother ;  but  not  against  the  betrayal  of  what  he  knew  to 
others,  especially  when  the  subject  was  suggested  by  the 
coupling  of  Roraola’s  name  with  that  of  the  very  Tito  Melema 
whose  description  he  had  carried  round  his  neck  as  an  index. 
No !  nothing  but  Fra  Luca’s  death  could  remove  all  danger ; 
but  his  death  was  highly  probable,  and  after  the  momentary 
shock  of  the  discovery,  Tito  let  his  mind  fall  back  in  repose 
on  that  confident  hope. 

They  had  sat  in  silence,  and  in  a  deepening  twilight  for 
many  minutes,  when  Romola  ventured  to  say  — 

Shall  I  light  the  lamp,  father,  and  shall  we  go  on  ?  ” 

“  No,  my  Romola,  we  will  work  no  more  to-night.  Tito, 
come  and  sit  by  me  here.” 

Tito  moved  from  the  reading-desk,  and  seated  himself  on  the 
other  side  of  Bardo,  close  to  his  left  elbow. 

Come  nearer  to  me,  figliuola  mia,”  said  Bardo  again,  after  ' 
a  moment’s  pause.  And  Romola  seated  herself  on  a  low  stool 
and  let  her  arm  rest  on  her  father’s  right  knee,  that  he  might 
lay  his  hand  on  her  hair,  as  he  was  fond  of  doing. 

“  Tito,  I  never  told  you  that  I  had  once  a  son,”  said  Bardo, 
forgetting  what  had  fallen  from  him  in  the  emotion  raised  by 
their  first  interview.  The  old  man  had  been  deeply  shaken^ 


THE  PRIZE  IS  NEARLY  GRASPED. 


137 


and  was  forced  to  pour  out  his  feelings  in  spite  of  pride. 

But  he  left  me  —  he  is  dead  to  me.  I  have  disowned  him 
forever.  He  was  a  ready  scholar,  as  you  are,  but  more  fervid 
and  impatient,  and  yet  sometimes  rapt  and  self-absorbed,  like 
.a  flame  fed  by  some  fitful  source  ;  showing  a  disposition  from 
the  very  first  to  turn  away  his  eyes  from  the  clear  lights  of 
reason  and  philosophy,  and  to  prostrate  himself  under  the  in¬ 
fluences  of  a  dim  mysticism  which  eludes  all  rules  of  human 
duty  as  it  eludes  all  argument.  And  so  it  ended.  We  will 
speak  no  more  of  him  :  he  is  dead  to  me.  I  wish  his  face 
could  be  blotted  from  that  world  of  memory  in  which  the 
distant  seems  to  grow  clearer  and  the  near  to  fade.” 

Bardo  paused,  but  neither  Bomola  nor  Tito  dared  to  speak 
—  his  voice  was  too  tremulous,  the  poise  of  his  feelings  too 
doubtful.  But  he  presently  raised  his  hand  and  found  Tito’s 
shoulder  to  rest  it  on,  while  he  went  on  speaking,  with  an 
effort  to  be  calmer. 

“  But  ^ou  have  come  to  me,  Tito  —  not  quite  too  late.  I 
will  lose  no  time  in  vain  regret.  When  you  are  working  by 
my  side  I  seem  to  have  found  a  son  again.” 

The  old  man,  preoccupied  with  the  governing  interest  of  his 
life,  was  only  thinking  of  the  much-meditated  book  which  had 
quite  thrust  into  the  background  the  suggestion,  raised  by 
Bernardo  del  Nero’s  warning,  of  a  possible  marriage  between 
Tito  and  Eomola.  But  Tito  could  not  allow  the  moment  to 
pass  unused. 

Will  you  let  me  be  always  and  altogether  your  son  ? 
AVill  you  let  me  take  care  of  Eomola  —  be  her  husband  ? 
I  think  she  will  not  deny  me.  She  has  said  she  loves  me.  I 
know  I  am  not  equal  to  her  in  birth  —  in  anything ;  but  I  am 
no  longer  a  destitute  stranger.” 

“  Is  it  true,  my  Eomola  ?  ”  said  Bardo,  in  a  lower  tone,  an 
evident  vibration  passing  through  him  and  dissipating  the 
saddened  aspect  of  his  features. 

‘‘  Yes,  father,”  said  Eomola,  firmly.  “  I  love  Tito  —  I  wish 
to  marry  him,  that  we  may  both  be  your  children  and  never 
part.” 

Tito’s  hand  met  hers  in  a  strong  clasp  for  the  first  time, 


138 


HOMOLA. 


while  she  was  speaking,  but  their  eyes  were  fixed  anxiously 
on  her  father. 

Why  should  it  not  be  ?  ”  said  Bardo,  as  if  arguing  against 
any  opposition  to  his  assent,  rather  than  assenting.  “  It  would 
be  a  happiness  to  me ;  and  thou,  too,  Romola,  wouldst  be  the  - 
happier  for  it.” 

He  stroked  her  long  hair  gently  and  bent  towards  her. 

“  Ah,  I  have  been  apt  to  forget  that  thou  needest  some 
other  love  than  mine.  And  thou  wilt  be  a  noble  wife.  Ber 
nardo  thinks  I  shall  hardly  find  a  husband  fitting  for  thee. 
And  he  is  perhaps  right.  For  thou  art  not  like  the  herd  of 
thy  sex :  thou  art  such  a  woman  as  the  immortal  poets  had  a 
vision  of  when  they  sang  the  lives  of  the  heroes  tender 
but  strong,  like  thy  voice,  which  has  been  to  me  instead  of 
the  light  in  the  years  of  my  blindness.  .  .  .  And  so  thou  lovest 
him  ?  ” 

He  sat  upright  again  for  a  minute,  and  then  said,  in  the 
same  tone  as  before,  “  Why  should  it  not  be  ?  I  will  think  of 
it ;  I  will  talk  with  Bernardo.” 

Tito  felt  a  disagreeable  chill  at  this  answer,  for  Bernardo 
del  Nero’s  eyes  had  retained  their  keen  suspicion  whenever 
they  looked  at  him,  and  the  uneasy  remembrance  of  Fra  Luca 
converted  all  uncertainty  into  rear. 

“Speak  for  me,  Romola,”  he  said,  pleadingly.  “Messer 
Bernardo  is  sure  to  be  against  me.” 

“  No,  Tito,”  said  Romola,  “  my  godfather  will  not  oppose 
what  my  father  firmly  wills.  And  it  is  your  will  that  I  should 
marry  Tito  — is  it  not  true,  father?  Nothing  has  ever  come 
to  me  before  that  I  have  wished  for  strongly :  I  did  not  think 
it  possible  that  I  could  care  so  much  for  anything  that  could 
happen  to  myself.” 

It  was  a  brief  and  simple  plea ;  but  it  was  the  condensed 
story  of  Romola’s  self-repressing  colorless  young  life,  which 
had  thrown  all  its  passion  into  sympathy  with  aged  sorrows, 
aged  ambition,  aged  pride  and  indignation.  It  had  never 
occurred  to  Romola  that  she  should  not  speak  as  directly 
and  emphatically  of  her  love  for  Tito  as  of  any  other 
subject. 


THE  PRIZE  IS  NEARLY  GRASPED. 


139 


“  Romola  mia !  ”  said  her  father  fondly,  pausing  on  the 
words,  “it  is  true  thou  hast  never  urged  on  me  any  wishes 
of  thy  own.  And  I  have  no  will  to  resist  thine ;  rather,  my 
heart  met  Tito’s  entreaty  at  its  very  first  utterance.  Never¬ 
theless,  I  must  talk  with  Bernardo  about  the  measures  needful 
to  be  observed.  For  we  must  not  act  in  haste,  or  do  anything 
unbeseeming  my  name.  I  am  poor,  and  held  of  little  account 
by  the  wealthy  of  our  family  —  nay,  I  may  consider  myself  a 
lonely  man  —  but  I  must  nevertheless  remember  that  generous 
birth  has  its  obligations.  And  I  would  not  be  reproached  by 
my  fellow-citizens  for  rash  haste  in  bestowing  my  daughter. 
Bartolommeo  Scala  gave  his  Alessaudra  to  the  Greek  Marullo, 
but  Marullo’s  lineage  was  well  known,  and  Scala  himself  is  of 
no  extraction.  I  know  Bernardo  will  hold  that  we  must  take 
time  :  he  will,  perhaps,  reproach  me  with  want  of  due  fore¬ 
thought.  Be  patient,  my  children :  you  are  very  young.” 

No  more  could  be  said,  and  Romola’s  heart  was  perfectly 
satisfied.  Not  so  Tito’s.  If  the  subtle  mixture  of  good  and 
evil  prepares  suffering  for  human  truth  and  purity,  there  is 
also  suffering  prepared  for  the  wrong-doer  by  the  same  min¬ 
gled  conditions.  As  Tito  kissed  Romola  on  their  parting  that 
evening,  the  very  strength  of  the  thrill  that  moved  his  whole 
being  at  the  sense  that  this  woman,  whose  beauty  it  was  hardly 
possible  to  think  of  as  anything  but  the  necessary  consequence 
of  her  noble  nature,  loved  him  with  all  the  tenderness  that 
spoke  in  her  clear  eyes,  brought  a  strong  reaction  of  regret 
that  he  had  not  kept  himself  free  from  that  first  deceit  which 
had  dragged  him  into  the  danger  of  being  disgraced  before 
her.  There  was  a  spring  of  bitterness  mingling  with  that 
fountain  of  sweets.  Would  the  death  of  Fra  Luca  arrest  it  ? 
Up  i^'oped  it  would. 


140 


HOMOLA. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE  SHADOW  OP  NEMESIS. 

It  was  the  lazy  afternoon  time  on  the  7th  of  September, 
more  than  two  months  after  the  day  on  which  Romola  and 
Tito  had  confessed  their  love  to  each  other. 

Tito,  just  descended  into  Nello’s  shop,  had  found  the  barber 
stretched  on  the  bench  with  his  cap  over  his  eyes  ;  one  leg 
was  drawn  up,  and  the  other  had  slipped  towards  the  ground, 
having  apparently  carried  with  it  a  manuscript  volume  of 
verse,  which  lay  with  its  leaves  crushed.  In  a  corner  sat 
Sandro,  playing  a  game  at  mora  by  himself,  and  watching  the 
slow  reply  of  his  left  fingers  to  the  arithmetical  demands  of 
his  right  with  solemn-eyed  interest. 

Treading  with  the  gentlest  step,  Tito  snatched  up  the  lute, 
and  bending  over  the  barber,  touched  the  strings  lightly  while 
he  sang, 

“  Quant’  e  bella  giovinezza, 

Che  si  fugge  tuttavia  ! 

Chi  vuol  esser  lieto  sia, 

Di  doman  non  c’e  certezza.”  ^ 

Nello  was  as  easily  awaked  as  a  bird.  The  cap  was  off  his 
eyes  in  an  instant,  and  he  started  up. 

“Ah,  my  Apollino  !  I  am  somewhat  late  with  my  siesta  on 
this  hot  day,  it  seems.  That  comes  of  not  going  to  sleep  in 
the  natural  way,  but  taking  a  potion  of  potent  poesy.  Hear 
you,  how  I  am  beginning  to  match  my  words  by  the  initial 
letter,  like  a  trovatore  ?  That  is  one  of  my  bad  symptoms  :  I 
am  sorely  afraid  that  the  good  wine  of  my  understanding  is 

1  “Beauteous  is  life  in  blossom  I 
And  it  fleeteth  —  fleeteth  ever; 

Whoso  would  be  joyful  —  let  him  ! 

There ’s  no  surety  for  the  morrow.” 

Carnival  Song  by  Lorenzo  de’  Medici. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  NEMESIS. 


141 


going  to  run  off  at  the  spigot  of  authorship,  and  I  shall  be  left 
an  empty  cask  with  an  odor  of  dregs,  like  many  another 
incomparable  genius  of  my  acquaintance.  What  is  it,  my 
Orpheus  ?  ’’  here  Nello  stretched  out  his  arms  to  their  full 
length,  and  then  brought  them  round  till  his  hands  grasped 
Tito’s  curls,  and  drew  them  out  playfully.  What  is  it  you 
want  of  your  well-tamed  Nello  ?  For  I  perceive  a  coaxing 
sound  in  that  soft  strain  of  yours.  Let  me  see  the  very 
needle’s  eye  of  your  desire,  as  the  sublime  poet  says,  that  I 
may  thread  it.” 

That  is  but  a  tailor’s  image  of  your  sublime  poet’s,”  said 
Tito,  still  letting  his  fingers  fall  in  a  light  dropping  way  on 
the  strings.  “  But  you  have  divined  the  reason  of  my  affec¬ 
tionate  impatience  to  see  your  eyes  open.  I  want  you  to  give 
me  an  extra  touch  of  your  art — not  on  my  chin,  no;  but  on 
the  zazzera,  which  is  as  tangled  as  your  Florentine  politics. 
You  have  an  adroit  way  of  inserting  your  comb,  which  flatters 
the  skin,  and  stirs  the  animal  spirits  agreeably  in  that  region  ; 
and  a  little  of  your  most  delicate  orange-scent  would  not  be 
amiss,  for  I  am  bound  to  the  Scala  palace,  and  am  to  present 
myself  in  radiant  company.  The  young  Cardinal  Giovanni  do’ 
Medici  is  to  be  there,  and  he  brings  with  him  a  certain  young 
Bernardo  Dovizi  of  Bibbiena,  whose  wit  is  so  rapid  that  I  see  no 
way  of  outrivalling  it  save  by  the  scent  of  orange-blossoms.” 

Nello  had  already  seized  and  flourished  his  comb,  and  pushed 
Tito  gently  backward  into  the  chair,  wrapping  the  cloth  round 
him. 

‘‘Never  talk  of  rivalry,  bel  giovane  mio:  Bernardo  Dovizi 
is  a  keen  youngster,  who  will  never  carry  a  net  out  to  catch 
the  wind ;  but  he  has  something  of  the  same  sharp-muzzled 
look  as  his  brother  Ser  Piero,  the  weasel  that  Piero  de’  Medici 
keeps  at  his  beck  to  slip  through  small  holes  for  him.  No! 
you  distance  all  rivals,  and  may  soon  touch  the  sky  with  your 
forefinger.  They  tell  me  you  have  even  carried  enough  honey 
with  you  to  sweeten  the  sour  Messer  Angelo  ;  for  he  has  pro¬ 
nounced  you  less  of  an  ass  than  might  have  been  expected, 
considering  there  is  such  a  good  understanding  between  you 
and  the  Secretary.” 


142 


KOMOLA. 


“And  between  ourselves,  Nello  mio,  that  Messer  Angelo  has 
more  genius  and  erudition  than  I  can  find  in  all  the  other 
Florentine  scholars  put  together.  It  may  answer  very  well 
for  them  to  cry  me  up  now,  when  Poliziano  is  beaten  down 
with  grief,  or  illness,  or  something  else ;  I  can  try  a  flight 
with  such  a  sparrow-hawk  as  Pietro  Crinito,  but  for  Poliziano, 
he  is  a  large-beaked  eagle  who  would  swallow  me,  feathers 
and  all,  and  not  feel  any  difference. 

“  I  will  not  contradict  your  modesty  there,  if  you  will  have 
it  so  ;  but  you  don’t  expect  us  clever  Florentines  to  keep  say¬ 
ing  the  same  things  over  again  every  day  of  our  lives,  as  we 
must  do  if  we  always  told  the  truth.  We  cry  down  Dante, 
and  we  cry  up  Francesco  Cei,  just  for  the  sake  of  variety ;  and 
if  we  cry  you  up  as  a  new  Poliziano,  heaven  has  taken  care 
that  it  shall  not  be  quite  so  great  a  lie  as  it  might  have  been. 
And  are  you  not  a  pattern  of  virtue  in  this  wicked  city  ?  with 
your  ears  double  waxed  against  all  siren  invitations  that  would 
lure  you  from  the  Via  de’  Bardi,  and  the  great  work  which  is 
to  astonish  posterity  ?  ” 

“Posterity  in  good  truth,  whom  it  will  probably  astonish 
as  the  universe  does,  by  the  impossibility  of  seeing  what  was 
the  plan  of  it.” 

“  Yes,  something  like  that  was  being  prophesied  here  the 
other  day.  Cristoforo  Landino  said  that  the  excellent  Bardo 
was  one  of  those  scholars  who  lie  overthrown  in  their  learning, 
like  cavaliers  in  heavy  armor,  and  then  get  angry  because  they 
are  overridden  —  which  pithy  remark,  it  seems  to  me,  was  not 
an  herb  out  of  his  own  garden ;  for  of  all  men,  for  feeding  one 
with  an  empty  spoon  and  gagging  one  with  vain  expectation 
by  long  discourse,  Messer  Cristoforo  is  the  pearl.  Ecco  !  you 
are  perfect  now.”  Here  Hello  drew  away  the  cloth.  “  Im¬ 
possible  to  add  a  grace  more  !  But  love  is  not  always  to  be 
fed  on  learning,  eh  ?  I  shall  have  to  dress  the  zazzera  for  the 
betrothal  before  long  —  is  it  not  true  ?  ” 

“Perhaps,”  said  Tito,  smiling,  “unless  Messer  Bernardo 
should  next  recommend  Bardo  to  require  that  I  should  yoke 
a  lion  and  a  wild  boar  to  the  car  of  the  Zecca  before  I  can 
win  my  Alcestis.  But  I  confess  he  is  right  in  holding  me 


THE  SHADOW  OF  NEMESIS.  143 

anworthy  of  E-omola ;  she  is  a  Pleiad  that  may  grow  dim  by 
marrying  any  mortal.” 

“  Gnaffe,  your  modesty  is  in  the  right  place  there.  Yet 
Fate  seems  to  have  measured  and  chiselled  you  for  the  niche 
that  was  left  empty  by  the  old  man’s  son,  who,  by  the  way, 
Cronaca  was  telling  me,  is  now  at  San  Marco.  Did  you 
know  ?  ” 

A  slight  electric  shock  passed  through  Tito  as  he  rose  from 
the  chair,  but  it  was  not  outwardly  perceptible,  for  he  imme¬ 
diately  stooped  to  pick  up  the  fallen  book,  and  busied  his 
fingers  with  flattening  the  leaves,  while  he  said  — 

“No;  he  was  at  Fiesole,  I  thought.  Are  you  sure  he  is 
come  back  to  San  Marco  ?  ” 

“Cronaca  is  my  authority,”  said  Nello,  with  a  shrug.  “I 
don’t  frequent  that  sanctuary,  bat  he  does.  Ah,”  he  added, 
taking  the  book  from  Tito’s  hands,  “  my  poor  Nencia  da  Bar- 
berino !  It  jars  your  scholarly  feelings  to  see  the  pages  dog’s- 
eared.  I  was  lulled  to  sleej)  by  the  well-rhymed  charms  of 
that  rustic  maiden  —  ‘  prettier  than  the  turnip-flower,’  ‘  with 
a  cheek  more  savory  than  cheese.’  But  to  get  such  a  well- 
scented  nation  of  the  contadina,  one  must  lie  on  velvet  cush¬ 
ions  in  the  Via  Larga  —  not  go  to  look  at  the  Fierucoloni 
stumping  in  to  the  Piazza  de  la  Nunziata  this  evening  after 
sundown.” 

“  And  pray  who  are  the  Fierucoloni  ?  ”  said  Tito,  indiffer¬ 
ently,  settling  his  cap. 

“  The  contadine  who  came  from  the  mountains  of  Pistoia, 
and  the  Casentino,  and  heaven  knows  where,  to  keep  their 
vigil  in  the  church  of  the  Nunziata,  and  sell  their  yarn  and 
dried  mushrooms  at  the  Fierucola,^  as  we  call  it.  They  make 
a  queer  show,  with  their  paper  lanterns,  howling  their  hymns 
to  the  Virgin  on  this  eve  of  her  nativity  —  if  you  had  the 
leisure  to  see  them.  No  ?  —  well,  I  have  had  enough  of  it 
myself,  for  there  is  wild  work  in  the  Piazza.  One  may  hap¬ 
pen  to  get  a  stone  or  two  about  one’s  ears  or  shins  without 
asking  for  it,  and  I  was  never  fond  of  that  pressing  attention 
Addio.” 


1  The  little  Fair. 


144 


ROMOLA. 


Tito  carried  a  little  uneasiness  with  him  on  his  visit,  which 
ended  earlier  than  he  had  expected,  the  boy-cardinal  Giovanni 
de’  Medici,  youngest  of  red-hatted  fathers,  who  has  since  pre¬ 
sented  his  broad  dark  cheek  very  conspicuously  to  posterity 
as  Pope  Leo  the  Tenth,  having  been  detained  at  his  favorite 
pastime  of’  the  chase,  and  having  failed  to  appear.  It  still 
wanted  half  an  hour  of  sunset  as  he  left  the  door  of  the  Scala 
palace,  with  the  intention  of  proceeding  forthwith  to  the  Via  de’ 
Bardi ;  but  he  had  not  gone  far  when,  to  his  astonishment,  he 
saw  Bomola  advancing  towards  him  along  the  Borgo  Pinti. 

She  wore  a  thick  black  veil  and  black  mantle,  but  it  was 
impossible  to  mistake  her  figure  and  her  walk;  and  by  her 
side  was  a  short  stout  form,  which  he  recognized  as  that  of 
Monna  Brigida,  in  spite  of  the  unusual  plainness  of  her  attire. 
Romola  had  not  been  bred  up  to  devotional  observances,  and 
the  occasions  on  which  she  took  the  air  elsewhere  than  under 
the  loggia  on  the  roof  of  the  house,  were  so  rare  and  so  much 
dwelt  on  beforehand,  because  of  Bardo’s  dislike  to  be  left 
without  her,  that  Tito  felt  sure  there  must  have  been  some 
sudden  and  urgent  ground  for  an  absence  of  which  he  had 
heard  nothing  the  day  before.  She  saw  him  through  her  veil 
and  hastened  her  steps. 

“  Romola,  has  anything  happened  ?  ”  said  Tito,  turning  to 
walk  by  her  side. 

She  did  not  answer  at  the  first  moment,  and  Monna  Brigida 
broke  in. 

“  Ah,  Messer  Tito,  you  do  well  to  turn  round,  for  we  are  in 
haste.  And  is  it  not  a  misfortune  ?  we  are  obliged  to  go 
round  by  the  walls  and  turn  up  the  Via  del  Maglio,  because 
of  the  Pair;  for  the  contadine  coming  in  block  up  the  way 
by  the  Nunziata,  which  would  have  taken  us  to  San  Marco  in 
half  the  time.” 

Tito’s  heart  gave  a  great  bound,  and  began  to  beat  violently. 

“  Romola,”  he  said,  in  a  lower  tone,  “  are  you  going  to  San 
Marco  ?  ” 

They  were  now  out  of  the  Borgo  Pinti  and  were  under  the 
city  walls,  where  they  had  wide  gardens  on  their  left  hand, 
and  all  was  quiet.  Romola  put  aside  her  veil  for  the  sake  of 


THE  SHADOW  OF  NEMESIS.  145 

breathing  the  air,  and  he  could  see  the  subdued  agitation  in 
her  face. 

“Yes,  Tito  mio,”  she  said,  looking  directly  at  him  with  sad 
eyes.  “For  the  first  time  I  am  doing  something  unknown  to 
my  father.  It  comforts  me  that  I  have  met  you,  for  at  least 
I  can  tell  you.  But  if  you  are  going  to  him,  it  will  be  well  for 
you  not  to  say  that  you  met  me.  He  thinks  I  am  only  gone 
to  my  cousin,  because  she  sent  for  me.  I  left  my  godfather 
with  him .  he  knows  where  I  am  going,  and  why.  You  re¬ 
member  that  evening  when  my  brother’s  name  was  mentioned 
and  my  father  spoke  of  him  to  you  ?  ” 

“Yes,”  said  Tito,  in  a  low  tone.  There  was  a  strange  com¬ 
plication  in  his  mental  state.  His  heart  sank  at  the  proba¬ 
bility  that  a  great  change  was  coming  over  his  prospects,  while 
at  the  same  time  his  thoughts  were  darting  over  a  hundred 
details  of  the  course  he  would  take  when  the  change  had  come  ; 
and  yet  he  returned  Romola’s  gaze  with  a  hungry  sense  that 
it  might  be  the  last  time  she  would  ever  bend  it  on  him  with 
full  unquestioning  confidence. 

“  The  cugina  had  heard  that  he  was  come  back,  and  the 
evening  before  —  the  evening  of  San  Giovanni  —  as  I  after¬ 
wards  found,  he  had  been  seen  by  our  good  Maso  near  the 
door  of  our  house  ;  but  when  Maso  went  to  inquire  at  San 
Marco,  Dino,  that  is,  my  brother  —  he  was  christened  Ber¬ 
nardino,  after  our  godfather,  but  now  he  calls  himself  Fra 
Luca  —  had  been  taken  to  the  monastery  at  Fiesole,  because 
he  was  ill.  But  this  morning  a  message  came  to  Maso,  saying 
that  he  was  come  back  to  San  Marco,  and  Maso  went  to  him 
there.  He  is  very  ill,  and  he  has  adjured  me  to  go  and  see 
him.  I  cannot  refuse  it,  though  I  hold  him  guilty  ;  I  still 
remember  how  I  loved  him  when  I  was  a  little  girl,  before  I 
knew  that  he  would  forsake  my  father.  And  perhaps  he  has 
some  word  of  penitence  to  send  by  me.  It  cost  me  a  struggle 
to  act  in  opposition  to  my  father’s  feeling,  which  I  have  always 
held  to  be  just.  I  am  almost  sure  you  will  think  I  have  chosen 
rightly,  Tito,  because  I  have  noticed  that  your  nature  is  less 
rigid  than  mine,  and  nothing  makes  you  angry  :  it  would  cost 
you  less  to  be  forgiving ,  though,  if  you  had  seen  your  father 


146 


ROMOLA. 


forsaken  by  one  to  whom  he  had  given  his  chief  love  —  by  one 
in  whom  he  had  planted  his  labor  and  his  hopes  —  forsaken 
when  his  need  was  becoming  greatest  —  even  you,  Tito,  would 
find  it  hard  to  forgive.” 

What  could  he  say  ?  He  was  not  equal  to  the  hypocrisy 
of  telling  Eomola  that  such  offences  ought  not  to  be  pardoned ; 
and  he  had  not  the  courage  to  utter  any  words  of  dissuasion. 

You  are  right,  my  Romola ;  you  are  always  right,  except 
in  thinking  too  well  of  me.” 

There  was  really  some  genuineness  in  those  last  words,  and 
Tito  looked  very  beautiful  as  he  uttered  them,  with  an  unusual 
pallor  in  his  face,  and  a  slight  quivering  of  his  lip.  Eomola, 
interpreting  all  things  largely,  like  a  mind  prepossessed  with 
high  beliefs,  had  a  tearful  brightness  in  her  eyes  as  she  looked 
at  him,  touched  with  keen  joy  that  he  felt  so  strongly  what¬ 
ever  she  felt.  But  without  pausing  in  her  walk,  she  said  — 

“  And  now,  Tito,  I  wish  you  to  leave  me,  for  the  cugina  and 
I  shall  be  less  noticed  if  we  enter  the  piazza  alone.” 

“  Yes,  it  were  better  you  should  leave  us,”  said  Monna 
Brigida;  “for  to  say  the  truth,  Messer  Tito,  all  eyes  follow 
you,  and  let  Eomola  muffle  herself  as  she  will,  every  one  wants 
to  see  what  there  is  under  her  veil,  for  she  has  that  way  of 
walking  like  a  procession.  Not  that  I  find  fault  with  her  for 
it,  only  it  does  n’t  suit  my  steps.  And,  indeed,  I  would  ratlier 
not  have  us  seen  going  to  San  Marco,  and  that ’s  why  I  am 
dressed  as  if  I  were  one  of  the  Piagnoni  themselves,  and  as  old 
as  Sant’  Anna ;  for  if  it  had  been  anybody  but  poor  Dino, 
who  ought  to  be  forgiven  if  he ’s  dying,  for  what ’s  the  use  of 
having  a  grudge  against  dead  people  ?  —  make  them  feel  while 
they  live,  say  I  —  ” 

No  one  made  a  scruple  of  interrupting  Monna  Brigida,  and 
Tito,  having  just  raised  Eoraola’s  hand  to  his  lips,  and  said, 
“I  understand,  I  obey  you,”  now  turned  away,  lifting  his  cap 
—  a  sign  of  reverence  rarely  made  at  that  time  by  native  Flor¬ 
entines,  and  which  excited  Bernardo  del  Nero’s  contempt  for 
Tito  as  a  fawning  Greek ;  while  to  Eomola,  who  loved  homage, 
it  gave  him  an  exceptional  grace. 

He  was  half  glad  of  the  dismissal,  half  disposed  to  cling  tc 


THE  SHADOW  OF  NEMESIS. 


147 


Romola  to  the  last  moment  in  which  she  would  love  him  with¬ 
out  suspicion.  For  it  seemed  to  him  certain  that  this  brother 
would  before  all  things  want  to  know,  and  that  Romola  would 
before  all  things  confide  to  him,  what  was  her  father’s  position 
and  her  own  after  the  years  which  must  have  brought  so  much 
change.  She  would  tell  him  that  she  was  soon  to  be  publicly 
betrothed  to  a  young  scholar,  who  was  to  fill  up  the  place  left 
vacant  long  ago  by  a  wandering  son.  He  foresaw  the  impulse 
that  would  prompt  Romola  to  dwell  on  that  prospect,  and  what 
would  follow  on  the  mention  of  the  future  husband’s  name. 
Fra  Luca  would  tell  all  he  knew  and  conjectured,  and  Tito 
saw  no  possible  falsity  by  which  he  could  now  ward  off  the 
worst  consequences  of  his  former  dissimulation.  It  was  all 
over  with  his  prospects  in  Florence.  There  was  Messer  Ber¬ 
nardo  del  Nero,  who  would  be  delighted  at  seeing  confirmed 
the  wisdom  of  his  advice  about  deferring  the  betrothal  until 
Tito’s  character  and  position  had  been  established  by  a  longer 
residence ;  and  the  history  of  the  young  Greek  professor, 
whose  benefactor  was  in  slavery,  would  be  the  talk  under 
every  loggia.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  felt  too  fevered 
and  agitated  to  trust  his  power  of  self-command;  he  gave  up 
his  intended  visit  to  Bardo,  and  walked  up  and  down  under 
the  walls  until  the  yellow  light  in  the  west  had  quite  faded, 
when,  without  any  distinct  purpose,  he  took  the  first  turning, 
which  happened  to  be  the  Via  San  Sebastiano,  leading  him 
directly  towards  the  Piazza  dell’  Annunziata. 

He  was  at  one  of  those  lawless  moments  which  come  to  us  all 
if  we  have  no  guide  but  desire,  and  if  the  pathway  where  desire 
leads  us  seems  suddenly  closed ;  he  was  ready  to  follow  any 
beckoning  that  offered  him  an  immediate  purpose. 


148 


KOMOLA. 


CHAPTER  XIY. 

THE  peasants’  FAIB. 

The  moving  crowd  and  tlie  strange  mixture  of  noises  that 
burst  on  him  at  the  entrance  of  the  piazza,  reminded  Tito  of 
what  Nello  had  said  to  him  about  the  Fierucoloni,  and  he 
pushed  his  way  into  the  crowd  with  a  sort  of  pleasure  in  the 
hooting  and  elbowing  which  filled  the  empty  moments,  and 
dulled  that  calculation  of  the  future  which  had  so  new  a 
dreariness  for  him,  as  he  foresaw  himself  wandering  away 
solitary  in  pursuit  of  some  unknown  fortune,  that  his  thought 
had  even  glanced  towards  going  in  search  of  Baldassarre  after 
all. 

At  each  of  the  opposite  inlets  he  saw  people  struggling  into 
the  piazza,  while  above  them  paper  lanterns,  held  aloft  on 
sticks,  were  waving  uncertainly  to  and  fro.  A  rude  monoto¬ 
nous  chant  made  a  distinctly  traceable  strand  of  noise,  across 
which  screams,  whistles,  gibing  chants  in  piping  boyish  voices, 
the  beating  of  drums,  and  the  ringing  of  little  bells,  met 
each  other  in  confused  din.  Every  now  and  then  one  of 
the  dim  floating  lights  disappeared  with  a  smash  from  a  stone 
launched  more  or  less  vaguely  in  pursuit  of  mischief,  followed 
by  a  scream  and  renewed  shouts.  But  on  the  outskirts  of 
the  whirling  tumult  there  were  groups  who  were  keeping 
this  vigil  of  the  Nativity  of  the  Virgin  in  a  more  methodical 
manner  than  by  fitful  stone-throwing  and  gibing.  Certain 
ragged  men,  darting  a  hard  sharp  glance  around  them  while 
their  tongues  rattled  merrily,  were  inviting  country  people  to 
game  with  them  on  fair  and  open-handed  terms ;  two  mas¬ 
querading  figures  on  stilts,  who  had  snatched  lanterns  from 
the  crowd,  were  swaying  the  lights  to  and  fro  in  meteoric 
fashion,  as  they  strode  hither  and  thither ;  a  sage  trader  was 
doing  a  profitable  business  at  a  small  covered  stall,  in  hot  her- 
lingozzi,  a  favorite  farinaceous  delicacy ;  one  man  standing  on 


THE  PEASANTS’  FAIR. 


149 


ik  barrel,  with  his  back  firmly  planted  against  a  pillar  of  the 
loggia  in  front  of  the  Foundling  Hospital  {Spedale  degV  Inno- 
centi),  was  selling  efficacious  pills,  invented  by  a  doctor  of 
Salerno,  warranted  to  prevent  toothache,  and  death  by  drown¬ 
ing;  and  not  far  off,  against  another  pillar,  a  tumbler  was 
showing  off  his  tricks  on  a  small  platform  ;  while  a  handful  of 
’prentices,  despising  the  slack  entertainment  of  guerilla  stone- 
throwing,  were  having  a  private  concentrated  match  of  that 
favorite  Florentine  sport  at  the  narrow  entrance  of  the  Via  de- 
Febbrai. 

Tito,  obliged  to  make  his  way  through  chance  openings  in 
the  crowd,  found  himself  at  one  moment  close  to  the  trotting 
procession  of  barefooted,  hard-heeled  contadine,  and  could  see 
their  sun-dried,  bronzed  faces,  and  their  strange,  fragmentary 
garb,  dim  with  hereditary  dirt,  and  of  obsolete  stuffs  and  fash¬ 
ions,  that  made  them  look,  in  the  eyes  of  the  city  people,  like 
a  wayworn  ancestry  returning  from  a  pilgrimage  on  which 
they  had  set  out  a  century  ago.  Just  then  it  was  the  hardy, 
scant-feeding  peasant-women  from  the  mountains  of  Pistoia, 
who  were  entering  with  a  year’s  labor  in  a  moderate  bundle  of 
yarn  on  their  backs,  and  in  their  hearts  tliat  meagre  hope  of  good 
and  that  wide  dim  fear  of  harm,  which  were  somehow  to  be 
cared  for  by  the  Blessed  Virgin,  whose  miraculous  image, 
painted  by  the  angels,  was  to  have  the  curtain  drawn  away 
from  it  on  this  Eve  of  her  Nativity,  that  its  potency  might 
stream  forth  without  obstruction. 

At  another  moment  he  was  forced  away  towards  the  boun¬ 
dary  of  the  piazza,  where  the  more  stationary  candidates  for 
attention  and  small  coin  had  judiciously  placed  themselves,  in 
order  to  be  safe  in  their  rear.  Among  these  Tito  recognized 
his  acquaintance  Bratti,  who  stood  with  his  back  against  a 
pillar,  and  his  mouth  pursed  up  in  disdainful  silence,  eying 
every  one  who  approached  him  with  a  cold  glance  of  superior¬ 
ity,  and  keeping  his  hand  fast  on  a  serge  covering  which  con¬ 
cealed  the  contents  of  the  basket  slung  before  him.  Rather 
surprised  at  a  deportment  so  unusual  in  an  anxious  trader., 
Tito  went  nearer  and  saw  two  women  go  i;p  to  Bratti’s  basket 
with  a  look  of  curiosity,  whereupon  the  pedler  drew  the  cov- 


ROMOLA. 


ioO 

eriiig  tighter,  and  looked  another  way.  It  was  quite  too  pro¬ 
voking,  and  one  of  the  women  was  fain  to  ask  what  there  was 
in  his  basket. 

“  Before  I  answer  that,  Monna,  I  must  know  whether  you 
mean  to  buy.  I  can’t  show  such  wares  as  mine  in  this  fair 
for  every  fly  to  settle  on  and  pay  nothing.  My  goods  are  a 
little  too  choice  for  that.  Besides,  I ’ve  only  two  left,  and 
I ’ve  no  mind  to  sell  them  ;  for  with  the  chances  of  the  pesti¬ 
lence  that  wise  men  talk  of,  there  is  likelihood  of  their  being 
worth  their  weight  in  gold.  No,  no  ;  andate  con  Dio.” 

The  two  women  looked  at  each  other. 

“  And  what  may  be  the  price  ?  ”  said  the  second. 

“  Not  within  what  you  are  likely  to  have  in  your  purse, 
buona  donna,”  said  Bratti,  in  a  compassionately  supercilious 
tone.  “  I  recommend  you  to  trust  in  Messer  Domeneddio  and 
the  saints  :  poor  people  can  do  no  better  for  themselves.” 

“Not  so  poor  !  ”  said  the  second  woman,  indignantly,  draw¬ 
ing  out  her  money-bag.  “  Come,  now !  what  do  you  say  to 
a  grosso  ?  ” 

“  I  say  you  may  get  twenty-one  quattrini  for  it,”  said  Bratti, 
coolly ;  “  but  not  of  me,  for  I  have  n’t  got  that  small  change.” 

“  Come  ,  two,  then  ?  ”  said  the  woman,  getting  exasperated, 
while  her  companion  looked  at  her  with  some  envy.  “  It  will 
hardly  be  above  two,  I  think.” 

After  further  bidding,  and  further  mercantile  coquetry, 
Bratti  put  on  an  air  of  concession. 

“  Since  you ’ve  set  your  mind  on  it,”  he  said,  slowly  raising 
the  cover,  “  I  should  be  loath  to  do  you  a  mischief ;  for  Maes¬ 
tro  Gabbadeo  used  to  say,  when  a  woman  sets  her  mind  on  a 
thing  and  does  n’t  get  it,  she ’s  in  worse  danger  of  the  pesti¬ 
lence  than  before.  Ecco !  I  have  but  two  left ;  and  let  me  tell 
you,  the  fellow  to  them  is  on  the  finger  of  Maestro  Gabbadeo, 
who  is  gone  to  Bologna  —  as  wise  a  doctor  as  sits  at  any 
door.” 

The  precious  objects  were  two  clumsy  iron  rings,  beaten 
into  the  fashion  of  old  Roman  rings,  such  as  were  sometimes 
disinterred.  The  rust  on  them,  and  the  entirely  hidden  char¬ 
acter  of  their  potency,  were  so  satisfactory,  that  the  grossi 


THE  PEASANTS'  FAIR. 


161 


were  paid  without  grumbling,  and  the  first  woman,  destitute 
of  those  handsome  coins,  succeeded  after  much  show  of  reluc¬ 
tance  on  Bratti's  part  in  driving  a  bargain  with  some  of  her 
yarn,  and  carried  off  the  remaining  ring  in  triumph.  Bratti 
covered  up  his  basket,  which  was  now  filled  with  miscellanies, 
probably  obtained  under  the  same  sort  of  circumstances  as 
the  yarn,  and,  moving  from  his  pillar,  came  suddenly  upon 
Tito,  who,  if  he  had  had  time,  would  have  chosen  to  avoid 
recognition. 

“  By  the  head  of  San  Giovanni,  now,”  said  Bratti,  drawing 
Tito  back  to  the  pillar,  “  this  is  a  piece  of  luck.  For  I  was 
talking  of  you  this  morning,  Messer  Greco ;  but,  I  said,  he  is 
mounted  up  among  the  signori  now  —  and  I 'm  glad  of  it,  for  I 
was  at  the  bottom  of  his  fortune  —  but  I  can  rarely  get  speech 
of  him,  for  he ’s  not  to  be  caught  lying  on  the  stones  now  — 
not  he  !  But  it 's  your  luck,  not  mine,  Messer  Greco,  save  and 
except  some  small  trifle  to  satisfy  me  for  my  trouble  in  the 
transaction.” 

“  You  speak  in  riddles,  Bratti,”  said  Tito.  “  Remember,  I 
don’t  sharpen  my  wits,  as  you  do,  by  driving  hard  bargains 
for  iron  rings  :  you  must  be  plain.” 

“By  the  Holy  ’Vangels !  it  was  an  easy  bargain  I  gave 
them.  If  a  Hebrew  gets  thirty-two  per  cent,  I  hope  a  Chris¬ 
tian  may  get  a  little  more.  If  I  had  not  borne  a  conscience,  I 
should  have  got  twice  the  money  and  twice  the  yarn.  But, 
talking  of  rings,  it  is  your  ring  —  that  very  ring  you ’ve  got  on 
your  finger  —  that  I  could  get  you  a  purchaser  for ;  ay,  and  a 
purchaser  with  a  deep  money-bag.” 

“  Truly  ?  ”  said  Tito,  looking  at  his  ring  and  listening. 

“A  Genoese  who  is  going  straight  away  into  Hungary,  as 
I  understand.  He  came  and  looked  all  over  my  shop  to  see  if 
I  had  any  old  things  I  did  n’t  know  the  price  of ;  I  warrant 
you,  he  thought  I  had  a  pumpkin  on  my  shoulders.  He  had 
been  rummaging  all  the  shops  in  Florence.  And  he  had  a 
ring  on  - —  not  like  yours,  but  something  of  the  same  fashion  ; 
and  as  he  was  talking  of  rings,  I  said  I  knew  a  fine  young 
man,  a  particular  acquaintance  of  mine,  who  had  a  ring  of 
that  sort.  And  he  said,  ‘  Who  is  he,  pray  ?  Tell  him  I  ’ll 


152 


EOMOLA. 


give  him  his  price  for  it.’  And  I  thought  of  going  after  you 
to  Nello’s  to-morrow  ;  for  it ’s  my  opinion  of  you,  Messec 
Greco,  that  you  ’re  not  one  who ’d  see  the  Arno  run  broth,  and 
stand  by  without  dipping  your  finger.” 

Tito  had  lost  no  word  of  what  Bratti  had  said,  yet  his 
mind  had  been  very  busy  all  the  while.  Why  should  he  keep 
the  ring  ?  It  had  been  a  mere  sentiment,  a  mere  fancy,  that 
had  prevented  him  from  selling  it  with  the  other  gems ;  if  he 
had  been  wiser  and  had  sold  it,  he  might  perhaps  have  escaped 
that  identification  by  Fra  Luca.  It  was  true  that  it  had  been 
taken  from  Baldassarre’s  finger  and  put  on  his  own  as  soon  as 
his  young  hand  had  grown  to  the  needful  size ;  but  there  was 
really  no  valid  good  to  anybody  in  those  superstitious  scruples 
about  inanimate  objects.  The  ring  had  helped  towards  the 
recognition  of  him.  Tito  had  begun  to  dislike  recognition, 
which  was  a  claim  from  the  past.  This  foreigner’s  offer,  if 
he  would  really  give  a  good  price,  was  an  opportunity  for 
getting  rid  of  the  ring  without  the  trouble  of  seeking  a 
purchaser. 

^‘You  speak  with  your  usual  wisdom,  Bratti,”  said  Tito. 
‘‘I  have  no  objection  to  hear  what  your  Genoese  will  offer. 
But  when  and  where  shall  I  have  speech  of  him  ?  ” 

To-morrow,  at  three  hours  after  sunrise,  he  will  be  at  my 
shop,  and  if  your  wits  are  of  that  sharpness  I  have  always 
taken  them  to  be,  Messer  Greco,  you  will  ask  him  a  heavy 
price ;  for  he  minds  not  money.  It ’s  my  belief  he ’s  buying 
for  somebody  else,  and  not  for  himself  —  perhaps  for  some 
great  signor.” 

‘Mt  is  well,”  said  Tito.  ‘‘I  will  be  at  your  shop,  if  nothing 
hinders.” 

“  And  you  will  doubtless  deal  nobly  by  me  for  old  acquaint¬ 
ance’  sake,  Messer  Greco,  so  I  will  not  stay  to  fix  the  small 
sum  you  will  give  me  in  token  of  my  service  in  the  matter. 
It  seems  to  me  a  thousand  years  now  till  I  get  out  of  the 
piazza,  for  a  fair  is  a  dull,  not  to  say  a  wicked  thing,  when  one 
has  no  more  goods  to  sell.” 

Tito  made  a  hasty  sign  of  assent  and  adieu,  and  moving 
away  from  the  pillar,  again  found  himself  pushed  towards  the 


THE  PEASANTS’  FAIR. 


153 


middle  of  the  piazza  and  back  again,  without  the  power  of 
determining  his  own  course.  In  this  zigzag  way  he  was  car¬ 
ried  along  to  the  end  of  the  piazza  opposite  the  church,  where, 
in  a  deep  recess  formed  by  an  irregularity  in  the  line  of 
houses,  an  entertainment  was  going  forward  which  seemed 
to  be  especially  attractive  to  the  crowd.  Loud  bursts  of 
laughter  interrupted  a  monologue  which  was  sometimes  slow 
and  oratorical,  at  others  rattling  and  buffoonish.  Here  a  girl 
was  being  pushed  forward  into  the  inner  circle  with  apparent 
reluctance,  and  there  a  loud  laughing  minx  was  finding  a  way 
with  her  own  elbows.  It  was  a  strange  light  that  was  spread 
over  the  piazza.  There  were  the  pale  stars  breaking  out  above, 
and  the  dim  waving  lanterns  below,  leaving  all  objects  indis¬ 
tinct  except  when  they  were  seen  close  under  the  fitfully  mov¬ 
ing  lights  ;  but  in  this  recess  there  was  a  stronger  light,  against 
which  the  heads  of  the  encircling  spectators  stood  in  dark 
relief  as  Tito  was  gradually  pushed  towards  them,  while  above 
them  rose  the  head  of  a  man  wearing  a  white  mitre  with  yel¬ 
low  cabalistic  figures  upon  it. 

“Behold,  my  children!”  Tito  heard  him  saying,  “behold 
your  opportunity  !  neglect  not  the  holy  sacrament  of  matri¬ 
mony  when  it  can  be  had  for  the  small  sum  of  a  white  quat- 
trino  —  the  cheapest  matrimony  ever  offered,  and  dissolved  by 
special  bull  beforehand  at  every  man’s  own  will  and  pleasure. 
Behold  the  bull !”  Here  the  speaker  held  up  a  piece  of  parch¬ 
ment  with  huge  seals  attached  to  it.  “Behold  the  Indulgence 
granted  by  his  Holiness  Alexander  the  Sixth,  who,  being 
newly  elected  Pope  for  his  peculiar  piety,  intends  to  reform 
and  purify  the  Church,  and  wisely  begins  by  abolishing  that 
priestly  abuse  which  keeps  too  large  a  share  of  this  privileged 
matrimony  to  the  clergy  and  stints  the  laity.  Spit  once,  my 
sons,  and  pay  a  white  quattrino  !  This  is  the  whole  and  sole 
price  of  the  indulgence.  The  quattrino  is  the  only  difference 
the  Holy  Pather  allows  to  be  put  any  longer  between  us  and 
the  clergy’  —  who  spit  and  pay  nothing.” 

Tito  thought  he  knew  the  voice,  which  had  a  peculiarly 
sharp  ring,  but  the  face  was  too  much  in  shadow  from  the 
lights  behind  for  him  to  be  sure  of  the  features.  Stepping  as 


154 


ROMOLA. 


near  as  lie  could,  lie  saw  within  the  circle  behind  the  speaker 
an  altar-like  table  raised  on  a  small  platform,  and  covered  with 
a  red  drapery  stitched  all  over  with  yellow  cabalistical  figures. 
Half  a  dozen  thin  tapers  burned  at  the  back  of  this  table, 
which  had  a  conjuring  apparatus  scattered  over  it,  a  large 
open  book  in  the  centre,  and  at  one  of  the  front  angles  a  mon¬ 
key  fastened  by  a  cord  to  a  small  ring  and  holding  a  small 
taper,  which  in  his  incessant  fidgety  movements  fell  more  or 
less  aslant,  while  an  impish  boy  in  a  white  surplice  occupied 
himself  chiefly  in  cufl&ng  the  monkey  and  adjusting  the  taper. 
The  man  in  the  mitre  also  wore  a  surplice,  and  over  it  a  chas¬ 
uble  on  which  the  signs  of  the  zodiac  were  rudely  marked  in 
black  upon  a  yellow  ground.  Tito  was  sure  now  that  he  recog¬ 
nized  the  sharp  upward-tending  angles  of  the  face  under  the 
mitre :  it  was  that  of  Maestro  Vaiano,  the  mountebank,  from 
whom  he  had  rescued  Tessa.  Pretty  little  Tessa !  Perhaps 
she  too  had  come  in  among  the  troops  of  contadine. 

Come,  my  maidens  !  This  is  the  time  for  the  pretty  who 
can  have  many  chances,  and  for  the  ill-favored  who  have  few. 
Matrimony  to  be  had  —  hot,  eaten,  and  done  with  as  easily  as 
herlingozzi!  And  see!”  here  the  conjurer  held  up  a  cluster 
of  tiny  bags.  “  To  every  bride  I  give  a  Breve  with  a  secret  in 
it  —  the  secret  alone  worth  the  money  you  pay  for  the  matri¬ 
mony.  The  secret  how  to  —  no,  no,  I  will  not  tell  you  what 
the  secret  is  about,  and  that  makes  it  a  double  secret.  Hang 
it  round  your  neck  if  you  like,  and  never  look  at  it ;  I  don’t 
say  that  will  not  be  the  best,  for  then  you  will  see  many  things 
you  don’t  expect :  though  if  you  open  it  you  may  break  your 
leg,  e  vero,  but  you  will  know  a  secret !  Something  nobody 
knows  but  me  I  And  mark  —  I  give  you  the  Breve,  I  don’t 
sell  it,  as  many  another  holy  man  would :  the  quattrino  is  for 
the  matrimony,  and  the  Breve  you  get  for  nothing.  Orsic, 
giovanetti,  come  like  dutiful  sons  of  the  Church  and  buy  the 
Indulgence  of  his  Holiness  Alexander  the  Sixth.” 

This  buffoonery  just  fitted  the  taste  of  the  audience;  the 
fierucola  was  but  a  small  occasion,  so  the  townsmen  might  be 
contented  with  jokes  that  were  rather  less  indecent  than  those 
they  were  accustomed  to  hear  at  every  carnival,  put  into  easy 


THE  PEASANTS’  FAIK. 


166 


rhyme  by  the  Magnifico  and  his  poetic  satellites ;  while  the 
women,  over  and  above  any  relish  of  the  fun,  really  began  to 
have  an  itch  for  the  Brevi.  Several  couples  had  already  gone 
through  the  ceremony,  in  which  the  conjurer’s  solemn  gibberish 
and  grimaces  over  the  open  book,  the  antics  of  the  monkey, 
and  even  the  preliminary  spitting,  had  called  forth  peals  of 
laughter ;  and  now  a  well-looking,  merry-eyed  youth  of  seven¬ 
teen,  in  a  loose  tunic  and  red  cap,  pushed  forward,  holding 
by  the  hand  a  plump  brunette,  whose  scanty  ragged  dress  dis¬ 
played  her  round  arms  and  legs  very  picturesquely. 

“  Fetter  us  without  delay,  maestro !  ”  said  the  youth,  “  for 
I  have  got  to  take  my  bride  home  and  paint  her  under  the 
light  of  a  lantern.” 

Ha !  Mariotto,  my  son,  I  commend  your  pious  obser¬ 
vance.  .  .  .”  The  conjurer  was  going  on,  when  a  loud  chat¬ 
tering  behind  warned  him  that  an  unpleasant  crisis  had  arisen 
with  his  monkey. 

The  temper  of  that  imperfect  acolyth  was  a  little  tried  by 
the  over-active  discipline  of  his  colleague  in  the  surplice,  and 
a  sudden  cuff  administered  as  his  taper  fell  to  a  horizontal 
position,  caused  him  t®  leap  back  with  a  violence  that  proved 
too  much  for  the  slackened  knot  by  which  his  cord  was  fas¬ 
tened.  His  first  leap  was  to  the  other  end  of  the  table,  from 
which  position  his  remonstrances  were  so  threatening  that  the 
imp  in  the  surplice  took  up  a  wand  by  way  of  an  equivalent 
threat,  whereupon  the  monkey  leaped  on  to  the  head  of  a  tall 
woman  in  the  foreground,  dropping  his  taper  by  the  way, 
and  chattering  with  increased  emphasis  from  that  eminence. 
Great  was  the  screaming  and  confusion,  not  a  few  of  the  spec¬ 
tators  having  a  vague  dread  of  the  Maestro’s  monkey,  as 
capable  of  more  hidden  mischief  than  mere  teeth  and  claws 
could  inflict ;  and  the  conjurer  himself  was  in  some  alarm 
lest  any  harm  should  happen  to  his  familiar.  In  the  scuffle  to 
seize  the  monkey’s  string,  Tito  got  out  of  the  circle,  and,  not 
caring  to  contend  for  his  place  again,  he  allowed  himself  to  be 
gradually  pushed  towards  the  church  of  the  Nunziata,  and  to 
enter  among  tlie  worshipj)ers. 

The  brilliant  illumination  within  seemed  to  press  upon  his 


156 


ROMOLA. 


eyes  with  palpable  force  after  the  pale  scattered  lights  and 
broad  shadows  of  the  piazza,  and  for  the  first  minute  or  two  he 
could  see  nothing  distinctly.  That  yellow  splendor  was  in  itself 
something  supernatural  and  heavenly  to  many  of  the  peasant- 
women,  for  whom  half  the  sky  was  hidden  by  mountains,  and 
who  went  to  bed  in  the  twilight ;  and  the  uninterrupted  chant 
from  the  choir  was  repose  to  the  ear  after  the  hellish  hubbub 
of  the  crowd  outside.  Gradually  the  scene  became  clearer, 
though  still  there  was  a  thin  yellow  haze  from  incense  min¬ 
gling  with  the  breath  of  the  multitude.  In  a  chapel  on  the 
left  hand  of  the  nave,  wreathed  with  silver  lamps,  was  seen 
unveiled  the  miraculous  fresco  of  the  Annunciation,  which,  in 
Tito’s  oblique  view  of  it  from  the  right-hand  side  of  the  nave, 
seemed  dark  with  the  excess  of  light  around  it.  The  whole 
area  of  the  great  church  was  filled  with  peasant-women,  some 
kneeling,  some  standing;  the  coarse  bronzed  skins,  and  the 
dingy  clothing  of  the  rougher  dwellers  on  the  mountains, 
contrasting  with  the  softer-lined  faces  and  white  or  red  head- 
drapery  of  the  well-to-do  dwellers  in  the  valley,  who  were 
scattered  in  irregular  groups.  And  spreading  high  and  far 
over  the  walls  and  ceiling  there  was  another  multitude,  also 
pressing  close  against  each  other,  that  they  might  be  nearer 
the  potent  Virgin.  It  was  the  crowd  of  votive  waxen  images, 
the  effigies  of  great  personages,  clothed  in  their  habit  as  they 
lived:  Florentines  of  high  name  in  their  black  silk  lucco,  as 
when  thej'’  sat  in  council ;  popes,  emperors,  kings,  cardinals, 
and  famous  condottieri  with  plumed  morion  seated  on  their 
chargers  ;  all  notable  strangers  who  passed  through  Florence 
or  had  aught  to  do  with  its  affairs  —  Mohammedans,  even,  in 
well-tolerated  companionship  with  Christian  cavaliers  ;  some 
of  them  with  faces  blackened  and  robes  tattered  by  the  cor¬ 
roding  breath  of  centuries,  others  fresh  and  bright  in  new 
red  mantle  or  steel  corselet,  the  exact  doubles  of  the  living. 
And  wedged  in  with  all  these  were  detached  arms,  legs,  and 
other  members,  with  only  here  and  there  a  gap  where  some 
image  had  been  removed  for  public  disgrace,  or  had  fallen 
ominously,  as  Lorenzo’s  had  done  six  mouths  before.  It  was 
a  perfect  resurrection-swarm  of  remote  mortals  and  fragments 


THE  PEASANTS’  FAIR. 


157 


of  mortals,  reflecting,  in  their  varying  degrees  of  freshness, 
the  sombre  dinginess  and  sprinkled  brightness  of  the  crowd 
below. 

Tito’s  glance  wandered  over  the  wild  multitude  in  search 
of  something.  He  had  already  thought  of  Tessa,  and  the 
white  hoods  suggested  the  possibility  that  he  might  detect  her 
face  under  one  of  them.  It  was  at  least  a  thought  to  be 
courted,  rather  than  the  vision  of  Eomola  looking  at  him  with 
changed  eyes.  But  he  searched  in  vain ;  and  he  was  leaving 
the  church,  weary  of  a  scene  which  had  no  variety,  when,  just 
against  the  doorway,  he  caught  sight  of  Tessa,  only  two  yards 
off  him.  She  was  kneeling  with  her  back  against  the  wall, 
behind  a  group  of  peasant- women,  who  were  standing  and  look¬ 
ing  for  a  spot  nearer  to  the  sacred  image.  Her  head  hung  a 
little  aside  with  a  look  of  weariness,  and  her  blue  eyes  were 
directed  rather  absently  towards  an  altar-piece  where  the  Arch¬ 
angel  Michael  stood  in  his  armor,  with  young  face  and  float¬ 
ing  hair,  among  bearded  and  tonsured  saints.  Her  right  hand, 
holding  a  bunch  of  cocoons,  fell  by  her  side  listlessly,  and  her 
round  cheek  was  paled,  either  by  the  light  or  by  the  weariness 
that  was  expressed  in  her  attitude  :  her  lips  were  pressed  pout- 
ingly  together,  and  every  now  and  then  her  eyelids  half  fell : 
she  was  a  large  image  of  a  sweet  sleepy  child.  Tito  felt  an 
irresistible  desire  to  go  up  to  her  and  get  her  pretty  trusting 
looks  and  prattle:  this  creature,  who  was  without  moral  judg¬ 
ment  that  could  condemn  him,  whose  little  loving  ignorant 
soul  made  a  world  apart,  where  he  might  feel  in  freedom  from 
suspicions  and  exacting  demands,  had  a  new  attraction  for 
him  now.  She  seemed  a  refuge  from  the  threatened  isolation 
that  would  come  with  disgrace.  H:  glanced  cautiously  round, 
to  assure  himself  that  Monna  Ghita  was  not  near,  and  then, 
slipping  quietly  to  her  side,  kneeled  on  one  knee,  and  said,  in 
the  softest  voice,  “  Tessa !  ” 

She  hardly  started,  any  more  than  she  would  have  started  at 
a  soft  breeze  that  fanned  her  gently  when  she  was  needing  it. 
She  turned  her  head  and  saw  Tito’s  face  close  to  her  :  it  was 
very  much  more  beautiful  than  the  Archangel  Michael’s,  who 
v/as  so  mighty  ami  so  good  that  he  lived  with  the  Madonna 


ROMOLA. 


ibb 

and  all  the  saints  and  was  prayed  to  along  with  them.  She 
smiled  in  happy  silence,  for  that  nearness  of  Tito  quite  filled 
her  mind. 

“  My  little  Tessa !  yon  look  very  tired.  How  long  have  you 
been  kneeling  here  ?  ” 

She  seemed  to  be  collecting  her  thoughts  for  a  minute  or 
two,  and  at  last  she  said  — 

“  I ’m  very  hungry.” 

“  Come,  then ;  come  with  me.” 

He  lifted  her  from  her  knees,  and  led  her  out  under  the 
cloisters  surrounding  the  atrium,  which  were  then  open,  and 
not  yet  adorned  with  the  frescos  of  Andrea  del  Sarto. 

“How  is  it  you  are  all  by  yourself,  and  so  hungry,  Tessa?” 

“  The  Madre  is  ill ;  she  has  very  bad  pains  in  her  legs,  and 
sent  me  to  bring  these  cocoons  to  the  Santissima  Nunziata, 
because  they  ’re  so  wonderful ;  see  !  ”  —  she  held  up  the  bunch 
of  cocoons,  which  were  arranged  with  fortuitous  regularity  on 
a  stem,  —  “  and  she  had  kept  them  to  bring  them  herself,  but 
she  could  n’t,  and  so  she  sent  me  because  she  thinks  the  Holy 
Madonna  may  take  away  her  pains ;  and  somebody  took  my 
bag  with  the  bread  and  chestnuts  in  it,  and  the  people  pushed 
me  back,  and  I  was  so  frightened  coming  in  the  crowd,  and  I 
couldn’t  get  anywhere  near  the  Holy  Madonna,  to  give  the 
cocoons  to  the  Padre,  but  I  must  —  oh,  I  must!” 

“Yes,  my  little  Tessa,  you  shall  take  them;  but  first  come 
and  let  me  give  you  some  berlingozzi.  There  are  some  to  be 
had  not  far  off.” 

“  Where  did  you  come  from  ?  ”  said  Tessa,  a  little  bewildered. 
“  I  thought  you  would  never  come  to  me  again,  because  you 
never  came  to  the  Mercato  for  milk  any  more.  I  set  myself 
Aves  to  say,  to  see  if  they  would  bring  you  back,  but  I  left 
off,  because  they  did  n’t.” 

“  You  see  I  come  when  you  want  some  one  to  take  care  of 
you,  Tessa.  Perhaps  the  Aves  fetched  me,  only  it  took  them 
a  long  while.  But  what  shall  you  do  if  you  are  here  all  alone  ? 
Where  shall  you  go  ?  ” 

“  Oh,  I  shall  stay  and  sleep  in  the  church  —  a  great  many 
of  them  do  —  in  the  church  and  all  about  here  —  I  did  once 


THE  PEASANTS’  FAIR.  159 

<vhen  I  came  with  my  mother;  and  the  is  coming  with 

the  mules  in  the  morning,” 

They  were  out  in  the  piazza  now,  where  the  crowd  was 
rather  less  riotous  than  before,  and  the  lights  were  fewer,  the 
stream  of  pilgrims  having  ceased.  Tessa  clung  fast  to  Tito’s 
arm  in  satisfied  silence,  while  he  led  her  towards  the  stall 
where  he  remembered  seeing  the  eatables.  Their  way  was 
the  easier  because  there  was  just  now  a  great  rush  towards 
the  middle  of  the  piazza,  where  the  masked  figures  on  stilts  had 
found  space  to  execute  a  dance.  It  was  very  pretty  to  see  the 
guileless  thing  giving  her  cocoons  into  Tito’s  hand,  and  then 
eating  her  berlingozzi  with  the  relish  of  a  hungry  child.  Tito 
had  really  come  to  take  care  of  her,  as  he  did  before,  and  that 
wonderful  happiness  of  being  with  him  had  begun  again  for 
her.  Her  hunger  was  soon  appeased,  all  the  sooner  for  the 
new  stimulus  of  happiness  that  had  roused  her  from  her  lan¬ 
guor  ;  and,  as  they  turned  away  from  the  stall,  she  said  nothing 
about  going  into  the  church  again,  but  looked  round  as  if  the 
sights  in  the  piazza  were  not  without  attraction  to  her  now 
she  was  safe  under  Tito’s  arm. 

“  How  can  they  do  that  ?  ”  she  exclaimed,  looking  up  at  the 
dancers  on  stilts.  Then,  after  a  minute’s  silence,  “  Do  you 
think  Saint  Christopher  helps  them  ?  ” 

Perhaps.  What  do  you  think  about  it,  Tessa  ?  ”  said  Tito, 
slipping  his  right  arm  round  her,  and  looking  down  at  her 
fondly. 

“  Because  Saint  Christopher  is  so  very  tall ;  and  he  is  very 
good :  if  anybody  looks  at  him  he  takes  care  of  them  all  day. 
He  is  on  the  wall  of  the  church  —  too  tall  to  stand  up  there  — 
but  I  saw  him  walking  through  the  streets  one  San  Giovanni, 
carrying  the  little  Gesh.” 

“  You  pretty  pigeon  !  Do  you  think  anybody  could  help 
taking  care  of  you,  if  you  looked  at  them  ?  ” 

“  Shall  you  always  come  and  take  care  of  me  ?  ”  said  Tessa, 
turning  her  face  up  to  him  as  he  crushed  her  cheek  with  his 
left  hand.  “  And  shall  you  always  be  a  long  while  first  ?  ” 

Tito  was  conscious  that  some  bystanders  were  Inughing  at 
them,  and  though  the  license  of  street  fun,  among  artists  and 


160 


ROMOLA. 


young  men  of  the  wealthier  sort  as  well  as  among  the  popu¬ 
lace,  made  few  adventures  exceptional,  still  less  disreputable, 
he  chose  to  move  away  towards  the  end  of  the  piazza. 

“Perhaps  I  shall  come  again  to  you  very  soon,  Tessa,”  he 
answered,  rather  dreamily,  when  they  had  moved  away.  He 
was  thinking  that  when  all  the  rest  had  turned  their  backs 
upon  him,  it  would  be  pleasant  to  have  this  little  creature 
adoring  him  and  nestling  against  him.  The  absence  of  pre¬ 
sumptuous  self-conceit  in  Tito  made  him  feel  all  the  more 
defenceless  under  prospective  obloquy :  he  needed  soft  looks 
and  caresses  too  much  ever  to  be  impudent. 

“In  the  Mercato  ?”  said  Tessa.  “Not  to-morrow  morning, 
because  the  patrigno  will  be  there,  and  he  is  so  cross.  Oh  ! 
but  you  have  money,  and  he  will  not  be  cross  if  you  buy  some 
salad.  And  there  are  some  chestnuts.  Do  you  like  chestnuts  ?  ” 

He  said  nothing,  but  continued  to  look  down  at  her  with  a 
dreamy  gentleness,  and  Tessa  felt  herself  in  a  state  of  deli¬ 
cious  wonder ;  everything  seemed  as  new  as  if  she  were  being 
carried  on  a  chariot  of  clouds. 

“  Holy  Virgin  !  ”  she  exclaimed  again  presently  ;  “  there  is 
a  holy  father  like  the  Bishop  I  saw  at  Prato.” 

Tito  looked  up  too,  and  saw  that  he  had  unconsciously  ad¬ 
vanced  to  within  a  few  yards  of  the  conjurer,  Maestro  Vaiano, 
who  for  the  moment  was  forsaken  by  the  crowd.  His  face 
was  turned  away  from  them,  and  he  was  occupied  with  the 
apparatus  on  his  altar  or  table,  preparing  a  new  diversion  by 
the  time  the  interest  in  the  dancing  should  be  exhausted.  The 
monkey  was  imprisoned  under  the  red  cloth,  out  of  reach  of 
mischief,  and  the  youngster  in  the  white  surplice  was  holding 
a  sort  of  dish  or  salver,  from  which  his  master  was  taking 
some  ingredient.  The  altar-like  table,  with  its  gorgeous  cloth, 
the  row  of  tapers,  the  sham  episcopal  costume,  the  surpliced 
attendant,  and  even  the  movements  of  the  mitred  figure, 
as  he  alternately  bent  his  head  and  then  raised  something 
before  the  lights,  were  a  sufficiently  near  parody  of  sacred 
things  to  rouse  poor  little  Tessa’s  veneration ;  and  there  was 
some  additional  awe  produced  by  the  mystery  of  their  appari¬ 
tion  in  this  spot,  for  when  she  had  seen  an  altar  in  the  street 


THE  PEASANTS’  FAIR 


161 


before,  it  had  been  on  Corpus  Christi  Day,  and  there  had  been 
a  procession  to  account  for  it.  She  crossed  herself  and  looked 
up  at  Tito,  but  then,  as  if  she  had  had  time  for  reflection,  said, 
“It  is  because  of  the  Nativita.” 

Meanwhile  Vaiano  had  turned  round,  raising  his  hands  to 
his  mitre  with  the  intention  of  changing  his  dress,  when  his 
quick  eye  recognized  Tito  and  Tessa,  who  were  both  looking 
at  him,  their  faces  being  shone  upon  by  the  light  of  his  tapers, 
while  his  own  was  in  shadow. 

“  Ha !  my  children  !  ”  he  said,  instantly,  stretching  out  his 
hands  in  a  benedictory  attitude,  “you  are  come  to  be  married. 
I  commend  your  penitence  —  the  blessing  of  Holy  Church  can 
never  come  too  late.” 

But  while  he  was  speaking  he  had  taken  in  the  whole  mean¬ 
ing  of  Tessa’s  attitude  and  expression,  and  he  discerned  an 
opportunity  for  a  new  kind  of  joke  which  required  him  to  be 
cautious  and  solemn. 

“  Should  you  like  to  be  married  to  me,  Tessa  ?  ”  said  Tito, 
softly,  half  enjoying  the  comedy,  as  he  saw  the  pretty  childish 
seriousness  on  her  face,  half  prompted  by  hazy  previsions 
which  belonged  to  the  intoxication  of  despair. 

He  felt  her  vibrating  before  she  looked  up  at  him  and  said, 
timidly,  “  Will  you  let  me  ?  ” 

He  answered  only  by  a  smile,  and  by  leading  her  forward 
in  front  of  the  cerretano,  who,  seeing  an  excellent  jest  in  Tessa’s 
evident  delusion,  assumed  a  surpassing  sacerdotal  solemnity, 
and  went  through  the  mimic  ceremony  with  a  liberal  expendi¬ 
ture  of  lingua  furhesca  or  thieves’  Latin.  But  some  symptoms 
of  a  new  movement  in  the  crowd  urged  him  to  bring  it  to  a 
speedy  conclusion  and  dismiss  them  with  hands  outstretched 
in  a  benedictory  attitude  over  their  kneeling  figures.  Tito, 
disposed  always  to  cultivate  good-will,  though  it  might  be  the 
least  select,  put  a  piece  of  four  grossi  into  his  hand  as  he  moved 
away,  and  was  thanked  by  a  look  which,  the  conjurer  felt  sure, 
conveyed  a  perfect  understanding  of  the  whole  affair. 

But  Tito  himself  was  very  far  from  that  understanding,  and 
did  not,  in  fact,  know  whether,  the  next  moment,  he  should 
tell  Tessa  of  the  joke  and  laugh  at  her  for  a  little  goose,  or 

11 


VOL.  V. 


162 


ROMOLA. 


whether  he  should  let  her  delusion  last,  and  see  what  would 
come  of  it  —  see  what  she  would  say  and  do  next. 

“Then  you  will  not  go  away  from  me  again,”  said  Tessa, 
after  they  had  walked  a  few  steps,  “  and  you  will  take  me  to 
Avhere  you  live.”  She  spoke  meditatively,  and  not  in  a  ques¬ 
tioning  tone.  But  presently  she  added,  “  I  must  go  back  once 
to  the  Madre,  though,  to  tell  her  I  brought  the  cocoons,  and 
that  I  am  married,  and  shall  not  go  back  again.” 

Tito  felt  the  necessity  of  speaking  now  ;  and,  in  the  rapid 
thought  prompted  by  that  necessity,  he  saw  that  by  undeceiv¬ 
ing  Tessa  he  should  be  robbing  himself  of  some  at  least  of 
that  pretty  trustfulness  which  might,  by-and-by,  be  his  only 
haven  from  contempt.  It  would  spoil  Tessa  to  make  her  the 
least  particle  wiser  or  more  suspicious. 

“Yes,  my  little  Tessa,”  he  said,  caressingly,  “you  must  go 
back  to  the  Madre ;  but  you  must  not  tell  her  you  are  married 
—  you  must  keep  that  a  secret  from  everybody ;  else  some 
very  great  harm  would  happen  to  me,  and  you  would  never 
see  me  again.” 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  fear  in  her  face. 

“  You  must  go  back  and  feed  your  goats  and  mules,  and  do 
just  as  you  have  always  done  before,  and  say  no  word  to  any 
one  about  me.” 

The  corners  of  her  mouth  fell  a  little. 

“And  then,  perhaps,  I  shall  come  and  take  care  of  you 
again  when  you  want  me,  as  I  did  before.  But  you  must  do 
just  what  I  tell  you.,  else  you  will  not  see  me  again.” 

“Yes,  I  will,  I  will,”  she  said  in  a  loud  whisper,  frightened 
at  that  blank  prospect. 

They  were  silent  a  little  while ;  and  then  Tessa,  looking  at 
her  hand,  said  — 

“  The  Madre  wears  a  betrothal  ring.  She  went  to  church 
and  had  it  put  on,  and  then  after  that,  another  day,  she  was 
married.  And  so  did  the  cousin  Nannina.  But  then  she  mar¬ 
ried  Gollo,”  added  the  poor  little  thing,  entangled  in  the  diffi¬ 
cult  comparison  between  her  own  case  and  others  within  her 
experience. 

“  But  you  must  not  wear  a  betrothal  ring,  my  Tessa,  because 


THE  PEASANTS’  FAIR. 


163 


no  one  must  know  you  are  married/’  said  Tito,  feeling  some 
insistence  necessary.  “  And  the  buona  fortuna  that  I  gave  you 
did  just  as  well  for  betrothal.  Some  people  are  betrothed 
with  rings  and  some  are  not.” 

“  Yes,  it  is  true,  they  would  see  the  ring,”  said  Tessa,  try¬ 
ing  to  convince  herself  that  a  thing  she  would  like  very  much 
was  really  not  good  for  her. 

They  were  now  near  the  entrance  of  the  church  again,  and 
she  remembered  her  cocoons,  which  were  still  in  Tito’s  hand. 

“  Ah,  you  must  give  me  the  she  said  ;  and  we  must 

go  in,  and  I  must  take  it  to  the  Padre,  and  I  must  tell  the  rest 
of  my  beads,  because  I  was  too  tired  before.” 

“  Yes,  you  must  go  in,  Tessa ;  but  I  will  not  go  in.  I  must 
leave  you  now,”  said  Tito,  too  feverish  and  weary  to  re-enter 
that  stifling  heat,  and  feeling  that  this  was  the  least  difficult 
way  of  parting  with  her. 

‘‘  And  not  come  back  ?  Oh,  where  do  you  go  ?  ”  Tessa’s 
mind  had  never  formed  an  image  of  his  whereabout  or  his 
doings  when  she  did  not  see  him :  he  had  vanished,  and  her 
thought,  instead  of  following  him,  had  stayed  in  the  same  spot 
where  he  was  with  her. 

“  I  shall  come  back  some  time,  Tessa,”  said  Tito,  taking 
her  under  the  cloisters  to  the  door  of  the  church.  You  must 
not  cry  —  you  must  go  to  sleep  when  you  have  said  your  beads. 
And  here  is  money  to  buy  your  breakfast.  Now  kiss  me,  and 
look  happy  ;  else  I  shall  not  come  again.” 

She  made  a  great  effort  over  herself  as  she  put  up  her  lips 
to  kiss  him,  and  submitted  to  be  gently  turned  round,  with  her 
face  towards  the  door  of  the  church.  Tito  saw  her  enter ;  and 
then,  with  a  shrug  at  his  own  resolution,  leaned  against  a  pil¬ 
lar,  took  off  his  cap,  rubbed  his  hair  backward,  and  wondered 
where  Pomola  was  now,  and  what  she  was  thinking  of  him. 
Poor  little  Tessa  had  disappeared  behind  the  curtain  among 
the  crowd  of  peasants ;  but  the  love  which  formed  one  web 
with  all  his  worldly  hopes,  with  the  ambitions  and  pleasures 
that  must  make  the  solid  part  of  his  days  —  the  love  that  was 
identified  with  his  larger  self  —  was  not  to  be  banished  from 
his  consciousness.  Even  to  the  man  who  presents  the  most 


164 


ROMOLA. 


elastic  resistance  to  wliatever  is  unpleasant,  there  will  come 
moments  when  the  pressure  from  without  is  too  strong  for 
him,  and  he  must  feel  the  smart  and  the  bruise  in  spite  of 
himself.  Such  a  moment  had  come  to  Tito.  There  was  no 
possible  attitude  of  mind,  no  scheme  of  action,  by  which  the 
uprooting  of  all  his  newly  planted  hopes  could  be  made  other¬ 
wise  than  painful. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE  DYING  MESSAGE. 

When  Romola  arrived  at  the  entrance  of  San  Marco  she 
found  one  of  the  Frati  waiting  there  in  expectation  of  her 
arrival.  Monna  Brigida  retired  into  the  adjoining  church, 
and  Romola  was  conducted  to  the  door  of  the  chapter-house  in 
the  outer  cloister,  whither  the  invalid  had  been  conveyed ;  no 
woman  being  allowed  admission  beyond  this  precinct. 

When  the  door  opened,  the  subdued  external  light  blending 
with  that  of  two  tapers  placed  behind  a  truckle-bed,  showed 
the  emaciated  face  of  Fra  Luca,  with  the  tonsured  crown  of 
golden  hair  above  it,  and  with  deep-sunken  hazel  eyes  fixed  on 
a  small  crucifix  which  he  held  before  him.  He  was  propped 
up  into  nearly  a  sitting  posture  ;  and  Romola  was  just  con¬ 
scious,  as  she  threw  aside  her  veil,  that  there  was  another 
monk  standing  by  the  bed,  with  the  black  cowl  drawn  over  his 
head,  and  that  he  moved  towards  the  door  as  she  entered  ;  just 
conscious  that  in  the  background  there  was  a  crucified  form 
rising  high  and  pale  on  the  frescoed  wall,  and  pale  faces  of 
sorrow  looking  out  from  it  below. 

The  next  moment  her  eyes  met  Fra  Luca’s  as  they  looked 
up  at  her  from  the  crucifix,  and  she  was  absorbed  in  that  pang 
of  recognition  which  identified  this  monkish  emaciated  form 
with  the  image  of  her  fair  young  brother. 

‘‘  Dino  !  ”  she  said,  in  a  voice  like  a  low  cry  of  pain.  But  she 
did  not  bend  towards  him  ;  she  held  herself  erect,  and  paused 


THE  DYING  MESSAGE. 


165 


at  two  yards’  distance  from  him.  There  was  an  unconquerable 
repulsion  for  her  in  that  monkish  aspect ;  it  seemed  to  her  the 
brand  of  the  dastardly  undutifulness  which  had  left  her  father 
desolate  —  of  the  grovelling  superstition  which  could  give  such 
undutifulness  the  name  of  piety.  Her  father,  whose  proud  sin¬ 
cerity  and  simplicity  of  life  had  made  him  one  of  the  few  frank 
pagans  of  his  time,  had  brought  her  up  with  a  silent  ignoring 
of  any  claims  the  Church  could  have  to  regulate  the  belief 
and  action  of  beings  with  a  cultivated  reason.  The  Church,  in 
her  mind,  belonged  to  that  actual  life  of  the  mixed  multitude 
from  which  they  had  always  lived  apart,  and  she  had  no  ideas 
that  could  render  her  brother’s  course  an  object  of  any  other 
feeling  than  incurious,  indignant  contempt.  Yet  the  loving¬ 
ness  of  Homola’s  soul  had  clung  to  that  image  in  the  past,  and 
while  she  stood  rigidly  aloof,  there  was  a  yearning  search  in 
her  eyes  for  something  too  faintly  discernible. 

But  there  was  no  corresponding  emotion  in  the  face  of 
the  monk.  He  looked  at  the  little  sister  returned  to  him  in 
her  full  womanly  beauty,  with  the  far-off  gaze  of  a  revisiting 
spirit. 

My  sister  !  ”  he  said,  with  a  feeble  and  interrupted  but  yet 
distinct  utterance,  “  it  is  well  thou  hast  not  longer  delayed  to 
come,  for  I  have  a  message  to  deliver  to  thee,  and  my  time  is 
short.” 

Romola  took  a  step  nearer  :  the  message,  she  thought,  would 
be  one  of  affectionate  penitence  to  her  father,  and  her  heart 
began  to  open.  Nothing  could  wipe  out  the  long  years  of 
desertion  ;  but  the  culprit,  looking  back  on  those  years  with 
the  sense  of  irremediable  wrong  committed,  would  call  forth 
j)ity.  Now,  at  the  last,  there  would  be  understanding  and 
forgiveness.  Dino  would  pour  out  some  natural  filial  feeling  ; 
he  would  ask  questions  about  his  father’s  blindness  —  how 
rapidly  it  had  come  on  ?  how  the  long  dark  days  had  been 
filled  ?  what  the  life  was  now  in  the  home  where  he  himself 
had  been  nourished  ?  —  and  the  last  message  from  the  dying 
lips  would  be  one  of  tenderness  and  regret. 

Romola,”  Fra  Luca  began,  I  have  had  a  vision  con¬ 
cerning  thee.  Thrice  I  have  had  it  in  the  last  two  months : 


166 


ROMOLA. 


each  time  it  has  been  clearer.  Therefore  I  came  from  Fiesole, 
deeming  it  a  message  from  heaven  that  I  was  bound  to  deliver. 
And  I  gather  a  promise  of  mercy  to  thee  in  this,  that  my 
breath  is  preserved  in  order  to  —  ” 

The  difficult  breathing  which  continually  interrupted  him 
would  not  let  him  finish  the  sentence. 

Romola  had  felt  her  heart  chilling  again.  It  was  a  vision, 
then,  this  message  —  one  of  those  visions  she  had  so  often 
heard  her  father  allude  to  with  bitterness.  Her  indignation 
rushed  to  her  lips. 

“  Dino,  I  thought  you  had  some  words  to  send  to  my  father. 
You  forsook  him  when  his  sight  was  failing ;  you  made  his 
life  very  desolate.  Have  you  never  cared  about  that  ?  never 
repented  ?  What  is  this  religion  of  yours,  that  places  visions 
before  natural  duties  ?  ” 

The  deep-sunken  hazel  eyes  turned  slowly  towards  her,  and 
rested  upon  her  in  silence  for  some  moments,  as  if  he  were 
meditating  whether  he  should  answer  her. 

No,”  he  said  at  last,  speaking,  as  before,  in  a  low  passion¬ 
less  tone,  as  of  some  spirit  not  human,  speaking  through  dy¬ 
ing  human  organs.  “  No  ;  I  have  never  repented  fleeing  from 
the  stifling  poison-breath  of  sin  that  was  hot  and  thick  around 
me,  and  threatened  to  steal  over  my  senses  like  besotting  wine. 
My  father  could  not  hear  the  voice  that  called  me  night  and 
day ;  he  knew  nothing  of  the  demon-tempters  that  tried  to 
drag  me  back  from  following  it.  My  father  has  lived  amidst 
human  sin  and  misery  without  believing  in  them  :  he  has 
been  like  one  busy  picking  shining  stones  in  a  mine,  while 
there  was  a  world  dying  of  plague  above  him.  I  spoke,  but 
he  listened  with  scorn.  I  told  him  the  studies  he  wished  me 
to  live  for  were  either  childish  trifling  —  dead  toys  —  or  else 
they  must  be  made  warm  and  living  by  pulses  that  beat  to 
worldly  ambitions  and  fleshly  lusts,  for  worldly  ambitious  and 
fleshly  lusts  made  all  the  substance  of  the  poetry  and  history 
he  wanted  me  to  bend  my  eyes  on  continually.” 

“  Has  not  my  father  led  a  pure  and  noble  life,  then  ?  ” 
Romola  burst  forth,  unable  to  hear  in  silence  this  implied 
accusation  against  her  father.  “He  has  sought  no  worldly 


THE  DYING  MESSAGE. 


167 


’.lonors  ;  he  has  been  truthful ;  he  has  denied  himself  all  luxu¬ 
ries  5  he  has  lived  like  one  of  the  ancient  sages.  He  never 
wished  you  to  live  for  worldly  ambitions  and  fleshly  lusts  ;  he 
wished  you  to  live  as  he  himself  has  done,  according  to  the 
purest  maxims  of  philosophy,  in  which  he  brought  you  up.” 

Komola  spoke  partly  by  rote,  as  all  ardent  and  sympathetic 
young  creatures  do ;  but  she  spoke  with  intense  belief.  The 
pink  flush  was  in  her  face,  and  she  quivered  from  head  to  foot. 
Her  brother  was  again  slow  to  answer ;  looking  at  her  passion¬ 
ate  face  with  strange  passionless  eyes. 

“  What  were  the  maxims  of  philosophy  to  me  ?  They  told 
me  to  be  strong,  when  I  felt  myself  weak  ;  when  I  was  ready, 
like  the  blessed  Saint  Benedict,  to  roll  myself  among  thorns, 
and  court  smarting  wounds  as  a  deliverance  from  temptation. 
For  the  Divine  love  had  sought  me,  and  penetrated  me,  and 
created  a  great  need  in  me ;  like  a  seed  that  wants  room  to 
grow.  I  had  been  brought  up  in  carelessness  of  the  true  faith ; 
I  had  not  studied  the  doctrines  of  our  religion ;  but  it  seemed 
to  take  possession  of  me  like  a  rising  flood.  I  felt  that  there 
was  a  life  of  perfect  love  and  purity  for  the  soul ;  in  which 
there  would  be  no  uneasy  hunger  after  pleasure,  no  tormenting 
questions,  no  fear  of  suffering.  Before  I  knew  the  history  of 
the  saints,  I  had  a  foreshadowing  of  their  ecstasy.  For  the 
same  truth  had  penetrated  even  into  pagan  philosophy  :  that  it 
is  a  bliss  within  the  reach  of  man  to  die  to  mortal  needs,  and  live 
in  the  life  of  God  as  the  Unseen  Perfectness.  But  to  attain 
that  I  must  forsake  the  world:  I  must  have  no  affection,  no 
hope,  Avedding  me  to  that  which  passeth  away  ;  I  must  live 
with  my  fellow-beings  only  as  human  souls  related  to  the 
eternal  unseen  life.  That  need  was  urging  me  continually  :  it 
came  over  me  in  visions  when  my  mind  fell  away  weary  from 
the  vain  Avords  which  record  the  passions  of  dead  men ;  it 
came  over  me  after  I  had  been  tempted  into  sin  and  had  turned 
away  with  loathing  from  the  scent  of  the  emptied  cup.  And 
in  visions  I  saw  the  meaning  of  the  Crucifix.” 

He  paused,  breathing  hard  for  a  minute  or  two :  but 
Romola  was  not  prompted  to  speak  again.  It  was  useless 
for  her  mind  to  attempt  any  contact  with  the  mind  of  this 


ROMOLA. 


lb'8 

unearthly  brother  ;  as  useless  as  for  her  hand  to  try  and  grasp 
a  shadow.  When  he  spoke  again  his  heaving  chest  was 
quieter. 

“  1  felt  whom  I  must  follow :  but  I  saw  that  even  among 
the  servants  of  the  Cross  Avho  professed  to  have  renounced  the 
world,  my  soul  would  be  stifled  with  the  fumes  of  hypocrisy 
and  lust  and  pride.  God  had  not  chosen  me,  as  he  chose 
Saint  Dominic  and  Saint  Francis,  to  wrestle  with  evil  in  the 
Church  and  in  the  world.  He  called  upon  me  to  flee  :  I  took 
the  sacred  vows  and  I  fled  —  fled  to  lands  where  danger  and 
scorn  and  want  bore  me  continually,  like  angels,  to  repose  on 
the  bosom  of  God.  I  have  lived  the  life  of  a  hermit,  I  have 
ministered  to  pilgrims  ;  but  my  task  has  been  short :  the  veil 
has  worn  very  thin  that  divides  me  from  my  everlasting  rest. 
I  came  back  to  Florence  that  —  ” 

“Dino,  you  did  want  to  know  if  my  father  Was  alive,”  in¬ 
terrupted  Romola,  the  picture  of  that  suffering  life  touching 
her  again  with  the  desire  for  union  and  forgiveness. 

—  that  before  I  died  I  might  urge  others  of  our  brethren 
to  study  the  Eastern  tongues,  as  I  had  not  done,  and  go  out  to 
greater  ends  than  I  did  ;  and  I  find  them  already  bent  on  the 
work.  And  since  I  came,  Romola,  I  have  felt  that  I  was  sent 
partly  to  thee  —  not  to  renew  the  bonds  of  earthly  affection, 
but  to  deliver  the  heavenly  warning  conveyed  in  a  vision. 
For  I  have  had  that  vision  thrice.  And  through  all  the 
years  since  first  the  Divine  voice  called  me,  while  I  was  yet  in 
the  world,  I  have  been  taught  and  guided  by  visions.  For  in  the 
painful  linking  together  of  our  waking  thoughts  we  can  never 
be  sure  that  we  have  not  mingled  our  own  error  with  the  light 
we  have  prayed  for ;  but  in  visions  and  dreams  we  are  passive, 
and  our  souls  are  as  an  instrument  in  the  Divine  hand.  There¬ 
fore  listen,  and  speak  not  again  —  for  the  time  is  short.” 

Romola’s  mind  recoiled  strongly  from  listening  to  this 
vision.  Her  indignation  had  subsided,  but  it  was  only  because 
she  had  felt  the  distance  between  her  brother  and  herself 
widening.  But  while  Fra  Luca  was  speaking,  the  figure  of  an¬ 
other  monk  had  entered,  and  again  stood  on  the  other  side  of 
the  bed,  with  the  cowl  drawn  over  his  head. 


THE  DYING  MESSAGE. 


169 


Kneel,  my  daughter,  for  the  Angel  of  Death  is  present, 
and  waits  while  the  message  of  heaven  is  delivered  :  bend  thy 
pride  before  it  is  bent  for  thee  by  a  yoke  of  iron,”  said  a  strong 
rich  voice,  startlingly  in  contrast  with  Fra  Luca’s. 

The  tone  was  not  that  of  imperious  command,  but  of  quiet 
self-possession  and  assurance  of  the  right,  blended  with  benig¬ 
nity.  Komola,  vibrating  to  the  sound,  looked  round  at  the  figure 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  bed.  His  face  was  hardly  discernible 
under  the  shadow  of  the  cowl,  and  her  eyes  fell  at  once  on  his 
hands,  which  were  folded  across  his  breast  and  lay  in  relief  on 
the  edge  of  his  black  mantle.  They  had  a  marked  physiog¬ 
nomy  which  enforced  the  influence  of  the  voice :  they  were 
very  beautiful  and  almost  of  transparent  delicacy.  Komola’s 
disposition  to  rebel  against  command,  doubly  active  in  the 
presence  of  monks,  whom  she  had  been  taught  to  despise, 
would  have  fixed  itself  on  any  repulsive  detail  as  a  point  of 
support.  But  the  face  was  hidden,  and  the  hands  seemed  to 
have  an  appeal  in  them  against  all  hardness.  The  next  mo¬ 
ment  the  right  hand  took  the  crucifix  to  relieve  the  fatigued 
grasp  of  Fra  Luca,  and  the  left  touched  his  lips  with  a  wet 
sponge  which  lay  near.  In  the  act  of  bending,  the  cowl  was 
pushed  back,  and  the  features  of  the  monk  had  the  full  light 
of  the  tapers  on  them.  They  were  very  marked  features,  such 
as  lend  themselves  to  popular  description.  There  was  the  high 
arched  nose,  the  prominent  under  lip,  the  coronet  of  thick 
dark  hair  above  the  brow,  all  seeming  to  tell  of  energy  and 
passion  ;  there  were  the  blue-gray  eyes,  shining  mildly  under 
auburn  eyelashes,  seeming,  like  the  hands,  to  tell  of  acute  sensi¬ 
tiveness,  Bomola  felt  certain  they  were  the  features  of  Fra 
Girolamo  Savonarola,  the  prior  of  San  Marco,  whom  she  had 
chiefly  thought  of  as  more  offensive  than  other  monks,  because 
he  was  more  noisy.  Her  rebellion  was  rising  against  the  first 
impression,  which  had  almost  forced  her  to  bend  her  knees. 

“  Kneel,  my  daughter,”  the  penetrating  voice  said  again ; 
“the  pride  of  the  body  is  a  barrier  against  the  gifts  that 
purify  the  soul.” 

He  was  looking  at  her  with  mild  fixedness  while  he  spoke, 
and  again  she  felt  that  subtle  mysterious  influence  of  a  person- 


170 


ROMOLA. 


ality  by  which  it  has  been  given  to  some  rare  men  to  move 
their  fellows. 

Slowly  Romola  fell  on  her  knees,  and  in  the  very  act  a  tremor 
came  over  her ;  in  the  renunciation  of  her  proud  erectness,  her 
mental  attitude  seemed  changed,  and  she  found  herself  in  a 
new  state  of  passiveness.  Her  brother  began  to  speak  again  — 
Romola,  in  the  deep  night,  as  I  lay  awake,  I  saw  my 
father’s  room  —  the  library  —  with  all  the  books  and  the  mar- 
bles  and  the  leggio,  where  I  used  to  stand  and  read ;  and  I 
saw  you  —  you  were  revealed  to  me  as  I  see  you  now,  with 
fair  long  hair,  sitting  before  my  father’s  chair.  And  at  the 
leggio  stood  a  man  whose  face  I  could  not  see.  I  looked,  and 
looked,  and  it  was  a  blank  to  me,  even  as  a  painting  effaced ; 
and  I  saw  him  move  and  take  thee,  Romola,  by  the  hand ; 
and  then  I  saw  thee  take  my  father  by  the  hand ;  and  you 
all  three  went  down  the  stone  steps  into  the  streets,  the  man 
whose  face  was  a  blank  to  me  leading  the  way.  And  you 
stood  at  the  altar  in  Santa  Croce,  and  the  priest  who  married 
you  had  the  face  of  death;  and  the  graves  opened,  and  the 
dead  in  their  shrouds  rose  and  followed  you  like  a  bridal  train. 
And  you  passed  on  through  the  streets  and  the  gates  into  the 
valley,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  he  who  led  you  hurried  you 
more  than  you  could  bear,  and  the  dead  were  weary  of  follow¬ 
ing  you,  and  turned  back  to  their  graves.  And  at  last  you 
came  to  a  stony  place  where  there  was  no  water,  and  no  trees 
or  herbage  ;  but  instead  of  water,  I  saw  written  parchment 
unrolling  itself  everywhere,  and  instead  of  trees  and  herbage 
I  saw  men  of  bronze  and  marble  springing  up  and  crowding 
round  you.  And  my  father  was  faint  for  want  of  water  and 
fell  to  the  ground ;  and  the  man  whose  face  was  a  blank 
loosed  thy  hand  and  departed ;  and  as  he  went  I  could  see  his 
face ;  and  it  was  the  face  of  the  Great  Tempter.  And  thou, 
Romola,  didst  wring  thy  hands  and  seek  for  water,  and  there 
was  none.  And  the  bronze  and  marble  figures  seemed  to 
mock  thee  and  hold  out  cups  of  water,  and  when  thou  didst 
grasp  them  and  put  them  to  my  father’s  lips,  they  turned 
to  parchment.  And  the  bronze  and  marble  figures  seemed  to 
turn  into  demons  and  snatch  my  father’s  body  from  thee,  and 


THE  DYING  MESSAGE. 


in 


the  parchments  shrivelled  up,  and  blood  ran  everywhere  in¬ 
stead  of  them,  and  fire  upon  the  blood,  till  they  all  vanished, 
and  the  plain  was  bare  and  stony  again,  and  thou  wast  alone 
in  the  midst  of  it.  And  then  it  seemed  that  the  night  fell 
and  I  saw  no  more.  .  .  .  Thrice  I  have  had  that  vision, 
Eomola.  I  believe  it  is  a  revelation  meant  for  thee :  to 
warn  thee  against  marriage  as  a  temptation  of  the  enemy ;  it 
calls  upon  thee  to  dedicate  thyself  —  ” 

His  pauses  had  gradually  become  longer  and  more  frequent, 
and  he  was  now  compelled  to  cease  by  a  severe  fit  of  gasping, 
in  which  his  eyes  were  turned  on  the  crucifix  as  on  a  light 
that  was  vanishing.  Presently  he  found  strength  to  speak 
again,  but  in  a  feebler,  scarcely  audible  tone. 

“  To  renounce  the  vain  philosophy  and  corrupt  thoughts  of 
the  heathens  :  for  in  the  hour  of  sorrow  and  death  their  pride 
will  turn  to  mockery,  and  the  unclean  gods  will  —  ” 

The  words  died  away. 

In  spite  of  the  thought  that  was  at  work  in  Eomola,  telling 
her  that  this  vision  was  no  more  than  a  dream,  fed  by  youth¬ 
ful  memories  and  ideal  convictions,  a  strange  awe  had  come 
over  her.  Her  mind  was  not  apt  to  be  assailed  by  sickly  fan¬ 
cies  ;  she  had  the  vivid  intellect  and  the  healthy  human  pas¬ 
sion,  which  are  too  keenly  alive  to  the  constant  relations  of 
things  to  have  any  morbid  craving  after  the  exceptional.  Still 
the  images  of  the  vision  she  despised  jarred  and  distressed  her 
like  painful  and  cruel  cries.  And  it  was  the  first  time  she  had 
witnessed  the  struggle  with  approaching  death  :  her  young 
life  had  been  sombre,  but  she  had  known  nothing  of  the 
utmost  human  needs  ;  no  acute  suffering  —  no  heart-cutting 
sorrow ;  and  this  brother,  come  back  to  her  in  his  hour  of 
supreme  agony,  was  like  a  sudden  awful  apparition  from  an 
invisible  world.  The  pale  faces  of  sorrow  in  the  fresco  on  the 
opposite  wall  seemed  to  have  come  nearer,  and  to  make  one 
company  with  the  pale  face  on  the  bed. 

“  Prate,”  said  the  dying  voice. 

Fra  Girolamo  leaned  down.  But  no  other  word  came  for 
some  moments. 

Eomola,”  it  said  next. 


172 


ROMOLA. 


She  leaned  forward  too  :  but  again  there  was  silence.  The 
words  were  struggling  in  vain, 

“  Fra  Girolamo,  give  her  —  ” 

The  crucifix/’  said  the  voice  of  Fra  Girolamo, 

No  other  sound  came  from  the  dying  lips. 

Dino  !  ”  said  Eomola,  with  a  low  but  piercing  cry,  as  the 
certainty  came  upon  her  that  the  silence  of  misunderstanding 
could  never  be  broken. 

“  Take  the  cruciiix,  my  daughter,”  said  Fra  Girolamo,  after 
a  few  minutes.  “  His  eyes  behold  it  no  more.” 

Eomola  stretched  out  her  hand  to  the  crucifix,  and  this  act 
appeared  to  relieve  the  tension  of  her  mind.  A  great  sob 
burst  from  her.  She  bowed  her  head  by  the  side  of  her  dead 
brother,  and  wept  aloud. 

It  seemed  to  her  as  if  this  first  vision  of  death  must  alter 
the  daylight  for  her  forevermore. 

Fra  Girolamo  moved  towards  the  door,  and  called  in  a  lay 
Brother  who  was  waiting  outside.  Then  he  went  up  to  Eo¬ 
mola,  and  said  in  a  tone  of  gentle  command,  “Else,  my  daugh¬ 
ter,  and  be  comforted.  Our  brother  is  with  the  blessed.  He 
has  left  you  the  crucifix,  in  remembrance  of  the  heavenly  warn¬ 
ing  —  that  it  may  be  a  beacon  to  you  in  the  darkness.” 

She  rose  from  her  knees,  trembling,  folded  her  veil  over 
her  head,  and  hid  the  crucifix  under  her  mantle.  Fra  Giro¬ 
lamo  then  led  the  way  out  into  the  cloistered  court,  lit  now 
only  by  the  stars  and  by  a  lantern  which  was  held  by  some 
one  near  the  entrance.  Several  other  figures  in  the  dress  of 
the  dignified  laity  were  grouped  about  the  same  spot.  They 
were  some  of  the  numerous  frequenters  of  San  Marco,  who 
had  come  to  visit  the  Prior,  and  having  heard  that  he  was  in 
attendance  on  the  dying  Brother  in  the  chapter-house,  had 
awaited  him  here. 

Eomola  was  dimly  conscious  of  footsteps  and  rustling  forms 
moving  aside :  she  heard  the  voice  of  Fra  Girolamo  saying,  in 
a  low  tone,  ‘‘  Our  brother  is  departed ;  ”  she  felt  a  hand  laid 
on  her  arm.  The  next  moment  the  door  was  opened,  and  she 
was  out  in  the  wide  piazza  of  San  Marco,  with  no  one  but 
Monna  Brigida,  and  the  servant  carrying  the  lantern. 


A  FLORENTINE  JOKE. 


173 


The  fresh  sense  of  space  revived  her,  and  helped  her  to  re¬ 
cover  her  self-mastery.  The  scene  which  had  just  closed  upon 
her  was  terribly  distinct  and  vivid,  but  it  began  to  narrow 
under  the  returning  impressions  of  the  life  that  lay  outside  it. 
She  hastened  her  steps,  with  nervous  anxiety  to  be  again  with 
her  father  —  and  with  Tito  —  for  were  they  not  together  in 
her  absence  ?  The  images  of  that  vision,  while  they  clung 
about  her  like  a  hideous  dream  not  yet  to  be  shaken  off,  made 
her  yearn  all  the  more  for  the  beloved  faces  and  voices  that 
would  assure  her  of  her  waking  life. 

Tito,  we  know,  was  not  with  Bardo ;  his  destiny  was  being 
shaped  by  a  guilty  consciousness,  urging  on  him  the  despair¬ 
ing  belief  that  by  this  time  Romola  possessed  the  knowledge 
which  would  lead  to  their  final  separation. 

And  the  lips  that  could  have  conveyed  that  knowledge  were 
forever  closed.  The  prevision  that  Fra  Luca’s  words  had  im¬ 
parted  to  Komola  had  been  such  as  comes  from  the  shadowy 
region  where  human  souls  seek  wisdom  apart  from  the  human 
sympathies  which  are  the  very  life  and  substance  of  our  wis¬ 
dom  ;  the  revelation  that  might  have  come  from  the  simple 
questions  of  filial  and  brotherly  affection  had  been  carried  into 
irrevocable  silence. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

A  FLORENTINE  JOKE. 

Early  the  next  morning  Tito  was  returning  from  Bratti’s 
shop  in  the  narrow  thoroughfare  of  the  Ferravecchi.  The 
Genoese  stranger  had  carried  away  the  onyx  ring,  and  Tito 
was  carrying  away  fifty  florins.  It  did  just  cross  his  mind 
that  if,  after  all,  Fortune,  by  one  of  her  able  devices,  saved 
liim  from  the  necessity  of  quitting  Florence,  it  would  be  better 
for  him  not  to  have  parted  with  his  ring,  since  he  had  been 
understood  to  wear  it  for  the  sake  of  peculiar  memories  and 
predilections  ;  still,  it  was  a  slight  matter,  not  worth  dwelling 
on  with  any  emphasis,  and  in  those  moments  he  had  lost  his 


174 


ROMOLA. 


conlidence  in  fortune.  The  feverish  excitement  of  the  firs-t 
alarm  which  had  impelled  his  mind  to  travel  into  the  future 
had  given  place  to  a  dull,  regretful  lassitude.  He  cared  so 
much  for  the  pleasures  that  could  only  come  to  him  through 
the  good  opinion  of  his  fellow-men,  that  he  wished  now  he  had 
never  risked  ignominy  by  shrinking  from  what  his  fellow-men 
called  obligations. 

But  our  deeds  are  like  children  that  are  born  to  us ;  they 
live  and  act  apart  from  our  own  will.  Nay,  children  may  be 
strangled,  but  deeds  never  :  they  have  an  indestructible  life 
both  in  and  out  of  our  consciousness ;  and  that  dreadful  vitality 
of  deeds  was  pressing  hard  on  Tito  for  the  first  time. 

He  was  going  back  to  his  lodgings  in  the  Piazza  di  San 
Giovanni,  but  he  avoided  passing  through  the  Mercato  Vec- 
chio,  which  was  his  nearest  way,  lest  he  should  see  Tessa.  He 
was  not  in  the  humor  to  seek  anything ;  he  could  only  await 
the  first  sign  of  his  altering  lot. 

The  piazza  with  its  sights  of  beauty  was  lit  up  by  that 
warm  morning  sunlight  under  which  the  autumn  dew  still  lin¬ 
gers,  and  which  invites  to  an  idlesse  undulled  by  fatigue.  It 
was  a  festival  morning,  too,  when  the  soft  warmth  seems  to 
steal  over  one  with  a  special  invitation  to  lounge  and  gaze. 
Here,  too,  the  signs  of  the  fair  were  present ;  in  the  spaces 
round  the  octagonal  baptistery,  stalls  were  being  spread  with 
fruit  and  flowers,  and  here  and  there  laden  mules  were  stand¬ 
ing  quietly  absorbed  in  their  nose-bags,  while  their  drivers 
were  perhaps  gone  through  the  hospitable  sacred  doors  to 
kneel  before  the  Blessed  Virgin  on  this  morning  of  her  Na¬ 
tivity.  On  the  broad  marble  steps  of  the  Duomo  there  were 
scattered  groups  of  beggars  and  gossiping  talkers ;  here  an  old 
crone  with  white  hair  and  hard  sunburnt  face  encouraging  a 
round-capped  baby  to  try  its  tiny  bare  feet  on  the  warmed  mar¬ 
ble,  while  a  dog  sitting  near  snuffed  at  the  performance  suspi¬ 
ciously  ;  there  a  couple  of  shaggy -headed  boys  leaning  to  watch 
a  small  pale  cripple  who  was  cutting  a  face  on  a  cherry-stone ; 
and  above  them  on  the  wide  platform  men  were  making  chang¬ 
ing  knots  in  laughing  desultory  chat,  or  else  were  standing  in 
close  couples  gesticulating  eagerly. 


A  FLORENTINE  JOKE. 


175 


But  the  largest  and  most  important  company  of  loungers 
was  that  towards  which  Tito  had  to  direct  his  steps.  It  was 
the  busiest  time  of  the  day  with  Nello,  and  in  this  warm  sea¬ 
son  and  at  an  hour  when  clients  were  numerous,  most  men 
preferred  being  shaved  under  the  pretty  red  and  white  awn¬ 
ing  in  front  of  the  shop  rather  than  within  narrow  walls.  It 
is  not  a  sublime  attitude  for  a  man,  to  sit  with  lathered  chin 
thrown  backward,  and  have  his  nose  made  a  handle  of ;  but 
to  be  shaved  was  a  fashion  of  Florentine  respectability,  and  it 
is  astonishing  how  gravely  men  look  at  each  other  when  they 
are  all  in  the  fashion.  It  was  the  hour  of  the  day,  too,  when 
yesterday’s  crop  of  gossip  was  freshest,  and  the  barber’s  tongue 
was  always  in  its  glory  when  his  razor  was  busy  ;  the  deft 
activity  of  those  two  instruments  seemed  to  be  set  going  by 
a  common  spring.  Tito  foresaw  that  it  would  be  impossible 
for  him  to  escape  being  drawn  into  the  circle  ;  he  must  smile 
and  retort,  and  look  perfectly  at  his  ease.  Well !  it  was  but 
the  ordeal  of  swallowing  bread  and  cheese  pills  after  all.  The 
man  who  let  the  mere  anticipation  of  discovery  choke  him  was 
simply  a  man  of  weak  nerves. 

But  just  at  that  time  Tito  felt  a  hand  laid  on  his  shoulder, 
and  no  amount  of  previous  resolution  could  prevent  the  very 
unpleasant  sensation  with  which  that  sudden  touch  jarred  him. 
His  face,  as  he  turned  it  round,  betrayed  the  inward  shock  ; 
but  the  owner  of  the  hand  that  seemed  to  have  such  evil  magic 
in  it  broke  into  a  light  laugh.  He  was  a  young  man  about 
Tito’s  own  age,  with  keen  features,  small  close-clipped  head, 
and  close-shaven  lip  and  chin,  giving  the  idea  of  a  mind  as 
little  encumbered  as  possible  with  material  that  was  not  ner¬ 
vous.  The  keen  eyes  were  bright  with  hope  and  friendliness, 
as  so  many  other  young  eyes  have  been  that  have  afterwards 
closed  on  the  world  in  bitterness  and  disappointment ;  for 
at  that  time  there  were  none  but  pleasant  predictions  about 
Niccolb  Macchiavelli,  as  a  young  man  of  promise,  who  was 
expected  to  mend  the  broken  fortunes  of  his  ancient  family. 

“  Why,  Melema,  what  evil  dream  did  you  have  last  niglit, 
that  you  took  my  light  grasp  for  that  of  a  sbirro  or  something 
worse  ?  ” 


EOMOLA. 


m 

“Ah,  Messer  Niccolh  !  ”  said  Tito,  recovering  himself  im^ 
mediately  ;  “  it  must  have  been  an  extra  amount  of  dulness 
in  my  veins  this  morning  that  shuddered  at  the  approach  of 
your  wit.  But  the  fact  is,  I  have  had  a  bad  night.” 

“  That  is  unlucky,  because  you  will  be  expected  to  shine 
without  any  obstructing  fog  to-day  in  the  Eucellai  Gardens. 
I  take  it  for  granted  you  are  to  be  there.” 

“Messer  Bernardo  did  me  the  honor  to  invite  me,”  said 
Tito  j  “  but  I  shall  be  engaged  elsewhere.” 

“  Ah !  I  remember,  you  are  in  love,”  said  Macchiavelli,  with 
a  shrug,  “  else  you  would  never  have  such  inconvenient  en¬ 
gagements.  Why,  we  are  to  eat  a  peacock  and  ortolans  under 
the  loggia  among  Bernardo  Bucellai’s  rare  trees ;  there  are 
to  be  the  choicest  spirits  in  Florence  and  the  choicest  wines. 
Only,  as  Piero  de’  Medici  is  to  be  there,  the  choice  spirits 
may  happen  to  be  swamped  in  the  capping  of  impromptu 
verses.  I  hate  that  game ;  it  is  a  device  for  the  triumph  of 
small  wits,  who  are  always  inspired  the  most  by  the  smallest 
occasions.” 

“  What  is  that  you  are  saying  about  Piero  de’  Medici  and 
small  wits,  Messer  Niccolb  ?  ”  said  Nello,  whose  light  figure 
was  at  that  moment  predominating  over  the  Herculean  frame 
of  Niccolb  Caparra. 

That  famous  worker  in  iron,  whom  we  saw  last  with  bared 
muscular  arms  and  leathern  apron  in  the  Mercato  Vecchio, 
was  this  morning  dressed  in  holiday  suit,  and  as  he  sat  sub¬ 
missively  while  Nello  skipped  round  him,  lathered  him,  seized 
him  by  the  nose,  and  scraped  him  with  magical  quickness,  he 
looked  much  as  a  lion  might  if  it  had  donned  linen  and  tunic 
and  was  preparing  to  go  into  society. 

“  A  private  secretary  will  never  rise  in  the  world  if  he 
couples  great  and  small  in  that  way,”  continued  Nello.  “When 
great  men  are  not  allowed  to  marry  their  sons  and  daughters 
as  they  like,  small  men  must  not  expect  to  marry  their  words 
as  they  like.  Have  you  heard  the  news  Domenico  Cennini, 
here,  has  been  telling  us  ?  that  Pagolantonio  Soderini  has 
given  Ser  Piero  da  Bibbiena  a  box  on  the  ear  for  setting  on 
Piero  de’  Medici  to  interfere  with  the  marriage  between  young 


A  FLORENTINE  JOKE.  177 

Tommaso  Soderini  and  Fiammetta  Strozzi,  and  is  to  be  sent 
ambassador  to  Venice  as  a  punishment  ?  ” 

“  I  don’t  know  which  I  envy  him  most/’  said  Macchiavelli, 
“  the  offence  or  the  punishment.  The  offence  will  make  him 
the  most  popular  man  in  all  Florence,  and  the  punishment  will 
take  him  among  the  only  people  in  Italy  who  have  known  how 
to  manage  their  own  affairs.” 

“Yes,  if  Soderini  stays  long  enough  at  Venice/’  said  Cen- 
nini,  “he  may  chance  to  learn  the  Venetian  fashion,  and  bring 
it  home  with  him.  The  Soderini  have  been  fast  friends  of  the 
Medici,  but  what  has  happened  is  likely  to  open  Pagolanto- 
nio’s  eyes  to  the  good  of  our  old  Florentine  trick  of  choosing 
a  new  harness  when  the  old  one  galls  us ;  if  we  have  not  quite 
lost  the  trick  in  these  last  fifty  years.” 

“Not  we,”  said  Niccolo  Caparra,  who  was  rejoicing  in  the 
free  use  of  his  lips  again.  “Eat  eggs  in  Lent  and  the  snow 
will  melt.  That’s  what  I  say  to  our  people  when  they  get 
noisy  over  their  cups  at  San  Gallo,  and  talk  of  raising  a  romor 
(insurrection):  I  say,  never  do  you  plan  a  romor;  you  may 
as  well  try  to  fill  Arno  with  buckets.  When  there ’s  water 
enough  Arno  will  be  full,  and  that  will  not  be  till  the  torrent 
is  ready.” 

“Caparra,  that  oracular  speech  of  yours  is  due  to  my  ex¬ 
cellent  shaving,”  said  Nello.  “You  could  never  have  made 
it  with  that  dark  rust  on  your  chin.  Ecco,  Messer  Domenico, 
I  am  ready  for  you  now.  By  the  way,  my  bel  erudite,”  con¬ 
tinued  Nello,  as  he  saw  Tito  moving  towards  the  door,  “here 
has  been  old  Maso  seeking  for  you,  but  your  nest  was  empty. 
He  will  come  again  presently.  The  old  man  looked  mourn¬ 
ful,  and  seemed  in  haste.  I  hope  there  is  nothing  wrong  in 
the  Via  de’  Bardi.” 

“Doubtless  Messer  Tito  knows  that  Bardo’s  son  is  dead,” 
said  Cronaca,  who  had  just  come  up. 

Tito’s  heart  gave  a  leap  —  had  the  death  happened  before 
Romola  saw  him  ? 

“No,  I  had  not  heard  it,”  he  said,  with  no  more  discom¬ 
posure  than  the  occasion  seemed  to  warrant,  turning  and  lean¬ 
ing  against  the  door-post,  as  if  he'  had  given  up  his  intention 

12 


VOL.  V. 


IT8 


ROMOLA. 


of  going  away.  I  knew  that  his  sister  had  gone  to  see  him. 
Did  he  die  before  she  arrived  ? 

‘‘No/’  said  Cronaca;  “I  was  in  San  Marco  at  the  time, 
and  saw  her  come  out  from  the  chapter-house  with  Fra  Giro¬ 
lamo,  who  told  us  that  the  dying  man’s  breath  had  been  pre¬ 
served  as  by  a  miracle,  that  he  might  make  a  disclosure  to  his 
sister.” 

Fito  felt  that  his  fate  was  decided.  Again  his  mind  rushed 
over  all  the  circumstances  of  his  departure  from  Florence,  and 
he  conceived  a  plan  of  getting  back  his  money  from  Cennini 
before  the  disclosure  had  become  public.  If  he  once  had  his 
money  he  need  not  stay  long  in  endurance  of  scorching  looks 
and  biting  words.  He  would  wait  now,  and 'go  away  with 
Cennini  and.  get  the  money  from  him  at  once.  With  that  pro¬ 
ject  in  his  mind  he  stood  motionless  —  his  hands  in  his  belt, 
his  eyes  fixed  absently  on  the  ground.  Nello,  glancing  at 
him,  felt  sure  that  he  was  absorbed  in  anxiety  about  Romola, 
and  thought  him  such  a  pretty  image  of  self-forgetful  sadness, 
that  he  just  perceptibly  pointed  his  razor  at  him,  and  gave 
a  challenging  look  at  Piero  di  Cosimo,  whom  he  had  never 
forgiven  for  his  refusal  to  see  any  prognostics  of  character 
in  his  favorite’s  handsome  face.  Piero,  who  was  leaning 
against  the  other  door-post,  close  to  Tito,  shrugged  his  shoul¬ 
ders  :  the  frequent  recurrence  of  such  challenges  from  Nello 
had  changed  the  painter’s  first  declaration  of  neutrality 
into  a  positive  inclination  to  believe  ill  of  the  much-praised 
Greek. 

“So  you  have  got  your  Fra  Girolamo  back  again,  Cronaca? 
I  suppose  we  shall  have  him  preaching  again  this  next  Ad¬ 
vent,”  said  Nello. 

“And  not  before  there  is  need,”  said  Cronaca,  gravely. 
“We  have  had  the  best  testimony  to  his  words  since  the  last 
Quaresima ;  for  even  to  the  wicked  wickedness  has  become  a 
plague ;  and  the  ripeness  of  vice  is  turning  to  rottenness  in 
the  nostrils  even  of  the  vicious.  There  has  not  been  a  change 
since  the  Quaresima,  either  in  Rome  or  at  Florence,  but  has 
put  a  new  seal  on  the  Frate’s  words  —  that  the  harvest  of  sin 
is  ripe,  and  that  God  will  reap  it  with  a  sword.” 


A  FLORENTINE  JOKE. 


179 


hope  he  has  had  a  new  vision,  however,”  said  Francesco 
Cei,  sneeringly.  ‘‘The  old  ones  are  somewhat  stale.  CanTyour 
Frate  get  a  poet  to  help  out  his  imagination  for  him  ?  ” 

“He  has  no  lack  of  poets  about  him,”  said  Cronaca,  with 
quiet  contempt,  “  but  they  are  grea,t  poets  and  not  little  ones  ; 
so  they  are  contented  to  be  taught  by  him,  and  no  more  think 
the  truth  stale  which  God  has  given  him  to  utter,  than  they 
think  the  light  of  the  moon  is  stale.  But  perhaps  certain  high 
prelates  and  princes  who  dislike  the  Frate’s  denunciations 
might  be  pleased  to  hear  that,  though  Giovanni  Pico,  and 
Poliziano,  and  Marsilio  Ficino,  and  most  other  men  of  mark 
in  Florence,  reverence  Fra  Girolamo,  Messer  Francesco  Cei 
despises  him.” 

“Poliziano?”  said  Cei,  with  a  scornful  laugh.  “Yes,  doubt¬ 
less  he  believes  in  yDur  new  Jonah  ;  witness  the  fine  orations 
he  wrote  for  the  envoys  of  Sienna,  to  tell  Alexander  the  Sixth 
that  the  world  and  the  Church  were  never  so  well  off  as  since 
he  became  Pope.” 

“Nay,  Francesco,”  said  Macchiavelli,  smiling,  “a  various 
scholar  must  have  various  opinions.  And  as  for  the  Frate, 
whatever  we  may  think  of  his  saintliness,  you  judge  his 
preaching  too  narrowly.  The  secret  of  oratory  lies,  not  in 
saying  new  things,  but  in  saying  things  with  a  certain  power 
that  moves  the  hearers  —  without  which,  as  old  Filelfo  has 
said,  your  speaker  deserves  to  be  called,  ‘non  oratorem,  sed 
aratorem.’  And,  according  to  that  test,  Fra  Girolamo  is  a 
great  orator.” 

“That  is  true,  Niccolo,”  said  Cennini,  speaking  from  the 
shaving-chair,  “but  part  of  the  secret  lies  in  the  prophetic 
visions.  Our  people  —  no  offence  to  you,  Cronaca  —  will  run 
after  anything  in  the  shape  of  a  prophet,  especially  if  he 
prophesies  terrors  and  tribulations.” 

“  Rather  say,  Cennini,”  answered  Cronaca,  “  that  the  chief 
secret  lies  in  the  Frate’s  pure  life  and  strong  faith,  which 
stamp  him  as  a  messenger  of  God.” 

“  I  admit  it  —  I  admit  it,”  said  Cennini,  opening  his  palms, 
as  he  rose  from  the  chair.  “  His  life  is  spotless :  no  man  has 
impeached  it.” 


180 


ROMOLA. 


“  He  is  satisfied  with  the  pleasant  lust  of  arrogance,-’  Oei 
burst  out,  bitterly.  “  I  can  see  it  in  that  proud  lip  and  satis¬ 
fied  eye  of  his.  He  hears  the  air  filled  with  his  own  name  — 
Fra  Girolamo  Savonarola,  of  Ferrara ;  the  prophet,  the  saint, 
^he  mighty  preacher,  who  frightens  the  very  babies  of  Flor¬ 
ence  into  laying  down  their  wicked  baubles.’’ 

“  Come,  come,  Francesco,  you  are  out  of  humor  with  wait¬ 
ing,”  said  the  conciliatory  Hello.  “  Let  me  stop  your  mouth 
with  a  little  lather.  I  must  not  have  my  friend  Cronaca  made 
angry :  I  have  a  regard  for  his  chin  ;  and  his  chin  is  in  no 
respect  altered  since  he  became  a  Piagnone.  And  for  my  own 
part,  I  confess,  when  the  Frate  was  preaching  in  the  Duomo 
last  Advent,  I  got  into  such  a  trick  of  slipping  in  to  listen  to 
him  that  I  might  have  turned  Piagnone  too,  if  I  had  not  been 
hindered  by  the  liberal  nature  of  my  art ;  and  also  by  the 
length  of  the  sermons,  which  are  sometimes  a  good  while 
before  they  get  to  the  moving  point.  But,  as  Messer  Hiccolo 
here  says,  the  Frate  lays  hold  of  the  people  by  some  power 
over  and  above  his  prophetic  visions.  Monks  and  nuns  who 
prophesy  are  not  of  that  rareness.  For  what  says  Luigi 
Pulci  ?  ‘  Dombruno’s  sharp-cutting  cimeter  had  the  fame  of 
being  enchanted;  but,’  says  Luigi,  H  am  rather  of  opinion 
that  it  cut  sharp  because  it  was  of  strongly  tempered  steel.’ 
Yes,  yes ;  Paternosters  may  shave  clean,  but  they  must  be  said 
over  a  good  razor.” 

‘‘See,  Hello!”  said  Macchiavelli,  “what  doctor  is  this  ad¬ 
vancing  on  his  Bucephalus  ?  I  thought  your  piazza  was  free 
from  those  furred  and  scarlet-robed  lackeys  of  death.  This 
inan  looks  as  if  he  had  had  some  such  night  adventure  as 
Boccaccio’s  Maestro  Simone,  and  had  his  bonnet  and  mantle 
pickled  a  little  in  the  gutter ;  though  he  himself  is  as  sleek  as 
a  miller’s  rat.” 

“  A-ah !  ”  said  Hello,  with  a  low  long-drawn  intonation,  as 
he  looked  up  towards  the  advancing  figure  —  a  round-headed, 
round-bodied  personage,  seated  on  a  raw  young  horse,  which 
held  its  nose  out  with  an  air  of  threatening  obstinacy,  and  by 
a  constant  effort  to  back  and  go  off  in  an  oblique  line  showed 
free  views  about  authority  very  much  in  advance  of  the  age. 


A  FLORENTINE  JOKE. 


181 


“  And  I  have  a  few  more  adventures  in  pickle  for  him,” 
continued  Nello,  in  an  undertone,  “  which  I  hope  will  drive 
his  inquiring  nostrils  to  another  quarter  of  the  city.  He ’s  a 
doctor  from  Padua ;  they  say  he  has  been  at  Prato  for  three 
months,  and  now  he ’s  come  to  Florence  to  see  what  he  can  net. 
But  his  great  trick  is  making  rounds  among  the  contadini. 
And  do  you  note  those  great  saddle-bags  he  carries  ?  They 
are  to  hold  the  fat  capons  and  eggs  and  meal  he  levies 
on  silly  clowns  with  whom  coin  is  scarce.  He  vends  his 
own  secret  medicines,  so  he  keeps  away  from  the  doors  of 
the  druggists ;  and  for  this  last  week  he  has  taken  to  sit¬ 
ting  in  my  piazza  for  two  or  three  hours  every  day,  and 
making  it  a  resort  for  asthmas  and  squalling  bambini.  It 
stirs  my  gall  to  see  the  toad-faced  quack  fingering  the  greasy 
quattrini,  or  bagging  a  pigeon  in  exchange  for  his  pills  and 
powders.  But  I  ’ll  put  a  few  thorns  in  his  saddle,  else  I ’m  no 
Florentine.  Laudamus !  he  is  coming  to  be  shaved ;  that ’s 
what  I ’ve  waited  for.  Messer  Domenico,  go  not  away ;  wait ; 
you  shall  see  a  rare  bit  of  fooling,  which  I  devised  two  days 
ago.  Here,  Sandro  !  ” 

Nello  whispered  in  the  ear  of  Sandro,  who  rolled  his  solemn 
eyes,  nodded,  and,  following  up  these  signs  of  understanding 
with  a  slow  smile,  took  to  his  heels  with  surprising  rapidity. 

“  How  is  it  with  you.  Maestro  Tacco  ?  ”  said  Hello,  as  the 
doctor,  with  difficulty,  brought  his  horse’s  head  round  towards 
the  barber’s  shop.  “That  is  a  fine  young  horse  of  yours,  but 
something  raw  in  the  mouth,  eh  ?  ” 

“  He  is  an  accursed  beast,  the  vermocane  seize  him  !  ”  said 
Maestro  Tacco,  with  a  burst  of  irritation,  descending  from  his 
saddle  and  fastening  the  old  bridle,  mended  with  string,  to  an 
iron  staple  in  the  wall.  “Nevertheless,”  he  added,  recollecting 
himself,  “a  sound  beast  and  a  valuable,  for  one  who  wanted  to 
purchase,  and  get  a  profit  by  training  him.  I  had  him  cheap.” 

“Rather  too  hard  riding  for  a  man  who  carries  your  weight 
of  learning:  eh.  Maestro?”  said  Nello.  “  You  seem  hot.” 

“  Truly,  I  am  likely  to  be  hot,”  said  the  doctor,  taking  off 
his  bonnet,  and  giving  to  full  view  a  bald  low  head  and  flat 
broad  face,  with  high  ears,  wide  lipless  mouth,  round  eyes, 


1S2 


ROMOLA. 


and  deep  arched  lines  above  the  projecting  eyebrows,  which 
altogether  made  Nello’s  epithet  “toad-faced”  dubiously  compli¬ 
mentary  to  the  blameless  batrachian.  “  Eiding  from  Peretola, 
when  the  sun  is  high,  is  not  the  same  thing  as  kicking  your 
heels  on  a  bench  in  the  shade,  like  your  Florence  doctors. 
Moreover,  I  have  had  not  a  little  pulling  to  get  through  the 
carts  and  mules  into  the  Mercato,  to  find  out  the  husband  of  a 
certain  Monna  Ghita,  who  had  had  a  fatal  seizure  before  I  was 
called  in ;  and  if  it  had  not  been  that  I  had  to  demand  my 
fees  —  ” 

“  Monna  Ghita !  ”  said  Nello,  as  the  perspiring  doctor  inter¬ 
rupted  himself  to  rub  his  head  and  face.  “  Peace  be  with  her 
angry  soul !  The  Mercato  will  want  a  whip  the  more  if  her 
tongue  is  laid  to  rest.” 

Tito,  who  had  roused  himself  from  his  abstraction,  and  was 
listening  to  the  dialogue,  felt  a  new  rush  of  the  vague  half- 
formed  ideas  about  Tessa,  which  had  passed  through  his  mind 
the  evening  before  :  if  Monna  Ghita  were  really  taken  out  of 
the  way,  it  would  be  easier  for  him  to  see  Tessa  again  —  when¬ 
ever  he  wanted  to  see  her. 

“  Chiaffe,  Maestro,”  Nello  went  on,  in  a  sympathizing  tone, 
“you  are  the  slave  of  rude  mortals,  who,  but  for  you,  would 
die  like  brutes,  without  help  of  pill  or  powder.  It  is  pitiful  to 
see  your  learned  lymph  oozing  from  your  pores  as  if  it  were 
mere  vulgar  moisture.  You  think  my  shaving  will  cool  and 
disencumber  you  ?  One  moment  and  I  have  done  with  Messer 
Francesco  here.  It  seems  to  me  a  thousand  years  till  I  wait 
upon  a  man  who  carries  all  the  science  of  Arabia  in  his  head 
and  saddle-bags.  Ecco  !  ” 

Nello  held  up  the  shaving-cloth  with  an  air  of  invitation, 
and  Maestro  Tacco  advanced  and  seated  himself  under  a  pre¬ 
occupation  with  his  heat  and  his  self-importance,  which  made 
him  quite  deaf  to  the  irony  conveyed  in  Nello’s  officiously 
polite  speech. 

“  It  is  but  fitting  that  a  great  medicus  like  you,”  said  Nello, 
adjusting  the  cloth,  “should  be  shaved  by  the  same  razor  that 
has  shaved  the  illustrious  Antonio  Benevieni,  the  greatest 
master  of  the  ckirurgic  art.” 


A  FLOEENTINE  JOKE. 


183 


The  chirurgic  art !  ”  interrupted  the  doctor,  with  an  air  of 
contemptuous  disgust.  “  Is  it  your  Florentine  fashion  to  put 
the  masters  of  the  science  of  medicine  on  a  level  with  men 
who  do  carpentry  on  broken  limbs,  and  sew  up  wounds  like 
tailors,  and  carve  away  excrescences  as  a  butcher  trims  meat  ? 
Via  !  A  manual  art,  such  as  any  artificer  might  learn,  and 
which  has  been  practised  by  simple  barbers  like  yourself  —  on 
a  level  with  the  noble  science  of  Hippocrates,  Galen,  and 
Avicenna,  which  penetrates  into  the  occult  influences  of  the 
stars,  and  plants,  and  gems  !  —  a  science  locked  up  from  the 
vulgar !  ” 

“No,  in  truth.  Maestro,”  said  Nello,  using  his  lather  very 
deliberately,  as  if  he  wanted  to  prolong  the  operation  to  the 
utmost,  “  I  never  thought  of  placing  them  on  a  level :  I  know 
your  science  comes  next  to  the  miracles  of  Holy  Church  for 
mystery.  But  there,  you  see,  is  the  pity  of  it”  —  here  Nello 
fell  into  a  tone  of  regretful  sympathy  —  “your  high  science  is 
sealed  from  the  profane  and  the  vulgar,  and  so  you  become  an 
object  of  envy  and  slander.  I  grieve  to  say  it,  but  there  are 
low  fellows  in  this  city  —  mere  sgherri,  who  go  about  in  night¬ 
caps  and  long  beards,  and  make  it  their  business  to  sprinkle 
gall  in  every  man’s  broth  who  is  prospering.  Let  me  tell  you 
—  for  you  are  a  stranger  —  this  is  a  city  where  every  man  had 
need  carry  a  large  nail  ready  to  fasten  on  the  wheel  of  Fortune 
when  his  side  happens  to  be  uppermost.  Already  there  are 
stories  —  mere  fables  doubtless  —  beginning  to  be  buzzed  about 
concerning  you,  that  make  me  wish  I  could  hear  of  your  being 
well  on  your  way  to  Arezzo.  I  would  not  have  a  man  of  yoiir 
metal  stoned ;  for  though  San  Stefano  was  stoned,  he  was  not 
great  in  medicine  like  San  Cosmo  and  San  Damiano  —  ” 

“  What  stories  ?  what  fables  ?  ”  stammered  Maestro  Tacco. 
“  What  do  you  mean  ?  ” 

“  Lasso  !  I  fear  me  you  are  come  into  the  trap  for  your 
cheese.  Maestro.  The  fact  is,  there  is  a  company  of  evil 
youths  who  go  prowling  about  the  houses  of  our  citizens 
carrying  sharp  tools  in  their  pockets ;  no  sort  of  door,  or 
window,  or  shutter,  but  they  will  pierce  it.  They  are  pos¬ 
sessed  with  a  diabolical  patience  to  watch  the  doings  of  people 


184 


ROMOLA. 


wlio  fancy  themselves  private.  It  must  he  they  who  have 
done  it  —  it  must  be  they  who  have  spread  the  stories  about 
you  and  your  medicines.  Have  you  by  chance  detected  any 
small  aperture  in  your  door,  or  window-shutter  ?  No  ?  Well, 
I  advise  you  to  look ;  for  it  is  now  commonly  talked  of  that 
you  have  been  seen  in  your  dwelling  at  the  Canto  di  Paglia, 
making  your  secret  specifics  by  night :  pounding  dried  toads  in 
a  mortar,  compounding  a  salve  out  of  mashed  worms,  and  mak¬ 
ing  your  pills  from  the  dried  livers  of  rats  which  you  mix 
with  saliva  emitted  during  the  utterance  of  a  blasphemous  in¬ 
cantation —  which  indeed  these  witnesses  profess  to  repeat.” 

‘‘It  is  a  pack  of  lies!  ”  exclaimed  the  doctor,  struggling  to 
get  utterance,  and  then  desisting  in  alarm  at  the  approaching 
razor. 

“It  is  not  to  me,  or  any  of  this  respectable  company,  that 
you  need  to  say  that,  doctor.  We  are  not  the  heads  to  plant 
such  carrots  as  those  in.  But  what  of  that  ?  What  are  a 
handful  of  reasonable  men  against  a  crowd  with  stones  in  their 
hands  ?  There  are  those  among  us  who  think  Cecco  d’Ascoli 
was  an  innocent  sage  —  and  we  all  know  how  he  was  burnt  alive 
for  being  wiser  than  his  fellows.  Ah,  doctor,  it  is  not  by  living 
at  Padua  that  you  can  learn  to  know  Plorentines.  My  belief  is, 
they  would  stone  the  Holy  Father  himself,  if  they  could  find 
a  good  excuse  for  it ;  and  they  are  persuaded  that  you  are  a 
necromancer,  who  is  trying  to  raise  the  pestilence  by  selling 
secret  medicines  —  and  I  am  told  your  specifics  have  in  truth 
an  evil  smell.” 

“It  is  false  !  ”  burst  out  the  doctor,  as  Nello  moved  away 
his  razor  ;  “  it  is  false  !  I  will  show  the  pills  and  the  powders 
CO  these  honorable  signori  —  and  the  salve  —  it  has  an  excellent 
odor  —  an  odor  of  —  of  salve.”  He  started  up  with  the  lather  on 
his  chin,  and  the  cloth  round  his  neck,  to  search  in  his  saddle¬ 
bag  for  the  belied  medicines,  and  Nello  in  an  instant  adroitly 
shifted  the  shaving-chair  till  it  was  in  the  close  vicinity  of  the 
horse’s  head,  while  Sandro,  who  had  now  returned,  at  a  sign 
from  his  master  placed  himself  near  the  bridle. 

“  Behold,  Messeri !  ”  said  the  doctor,  bringing  a  small  box 
of  medicines  and  opening  it  before  them.  “  Let  any  signor 


A  FLORENTINE  JOKE. 


185 


apply  this  box  to  his  nostrils  and  he  will  find  an  honest 
odor  of  medicaments  —  not  indeed  of  pounded  gems,  or  rare 
vegetables  from  the  East,  or  stones  found  in  the  bodies  of 
birds ;  for  I  practise  on  the  diseases  of  the  vulgar,  for  whom 
heaven  has  provided  cheaper  and  less  powerful  remedies  ac¬ 
cording  to  their  degree :  and  there  are  even  remedies  known 
to  our  science  which  are  entirely  free  of  cost  —  as  the  new 
tussis  may  be  counteracted  in  the  poor,  who  can  pay  for  no 
specifics,  by  a  resolute  holding  of  the  breath.  And  here  is  a 
paste  which  is  even  of  savory  odor,  and  is  infallible  against 
melancholia,  being  concocted  under  the  conjunction  of  Jupiter 
and  Venus  ;  and  I  have  seen  it  allay  spasms.” 

‘‘  Stay,  Maestro,”  said  Nello,  while  the  doctor  had  his  lath¬ 
ered  face  turned  towards  the  group  near  the  door,  eagerly 
holding  out  his  box,  and  lifting  out  one  specific  after  another ; 
“  here  comes  a  crying  contadina  with  her  baby.  Doubtless  she 
is  in  search  of  you  ;  it  is  perhaps  an  opportunity  for  you  to 
show  this  honorable  company  a  proof  of  your  skill.  Here, 
buona  donna  !  here  is  the  famous  doctor.  Why,  what  is  the 
matter  with  the  sweet  bimbo  ?  ” 

This  question  was  addressed  to  a  sturdy-looking,  broad- 
shouldered  contadina,  with  her  head-drapery  folded  about  her 
face  so  that  little  was  to  be  seen  but  a  bronzed  nose  and  a  pair 
of  dark  eyes  and  eyebrows.  She  carried  her  child  packed  up 
in  the  stiff  mummy-shaped  case  in  which  Italian  babies  have 
been  from  time  immemorial  introduced  into  society,  turning 
its  face  a  little  towards  her  bosom,  and  making  those  sorrow¬ 
ful  grimaces  which  women  are  in  the  habit  of  using  as  a  sort 
of  pulleys  to  draw  down  reluctant  tears. 

‘‘  Oh,  for  the  love  of  the  Holy  Madonna!”  said  the  woman 
in  a  wailing  voice,  “  will  you  look  at  my  poor  bimbo  ?  I 
know  I  can’t  pay  you  for  it,  but  I  took  it  into  the  Nunziata 
last  night,  and  it ’s  turned  a  worse  color  than  before ;  it ’s  the 
convulsions.  But  when  I  was  holding  it  before  the  Santissima 
M'unziata,  I  remembered  they  said  there  was  a  new  doctor  come 
who  cured  everything ;  and  so  I  thought  it  might  be  the  will 
of  the  Holy  Madonna  that  I  should  bring  it  to  you.” 

“  Sit  down.  Maestro,  sit  down,”  said  Hello.  Here  is  an 


186 


ROMOLA. 


opportunity  for  you ;  here  are  honorable  witnesses  who  will 
declare  before  the  Magnificent  Eight  that  they  have  seen 
you  practising  honestly  and  relieving  a  poor  woman’s  child. 
And  then  if  your  life  is  in  danger,  the  Magnificent  Eight 
will  put  you  in  prison  a  little  while  just  to  insure  your  safety, 
and  after  that,  their  sbirri  will  conduct  you  out  of  Florence  by 
night,  as  they  did  the  zealous  Frate  Minore,  who  preached 
against  the  Jews.  What !  our  people  are  given  to  stone¬ 
throwing  ;  but  we  have  magistrates.” 

The  doctor,  unable  to  refuse,  seated  himself  in  the  shaving- 
chair,  trembling,  half  with  fear  and  half  with  rage,  and  by  this 
time  quite  unconscious  of  the  lather  which  Nello  had  laid  on 
with  such  profuseness.  He  deposited  his  medicine-case  on  his 
knees,  took  out  his  precious  spectacles  (wondrous  Florentine 
device  ! )  from  his  wallet,  lodged  them  carefully  above  his  fiat 
nose  and  high  ears,  and  lifting  up  his  brows,  turned  towards 
the  applicant. 

“  0  Santiddio  !  look  at  him,”  said  the  woman,  with  a  more 
piteous  wail  than  ever,  as  she  held  out  the  small  mummy, 
which  had  its  head  completely  concealed  by  dingy  drapery 
wound  round  the  head  of  the  portable  cradle,  but  seemed  to 
be  struggling  and  crying  in  a  demoniacal  fashion  \inder  this 
imprisonment.  “  The  fit  is  on  him  !  Ohime  !  I  know  what 
color  he  is  ;  it ’s  the  evil  eye  —  oh  !  ” 

The  doctor,  anxiously  holding  his  knees  together  to  sup¬ 
port  his  box,  bent  his  spectacles  towards  the  baby,  and  said 
cautiously,  It  may  be  a  new  disease ;  unwind  these  rags, 
Monna!  ” 

The  contadina,  with  sudden  energy,  snatched  off  the  encir¬ 
cling  linen,  when  out  struggled  —  scratching,  grinning,  and 
screaming  —  what  the  doctor  in  his  fright  fully  believed  to  be 
a  demon,  but  what  Tito  recognized  as  Vaiano’s  monkey,  made 
more  formidable  by  an  artificial  blackness,  such  as  might  have 
come  from  a  hasty  rubbing  up  the  chimney. 

Up  started  the  unfortunate  doctor,  letting  his  medicine-box 
fall,  and  away  jumped  the  no  less  terrified  and  indignant  mon¬ 
key,  finding  the  first  resting-place  for  his  claws  on  the  horse’s 
mane,  which  he  used  as  a  sort  of  rope-ladder  till  he  had  fairly 


A  FLORENTINE  JOKE. 


187 


found  his  equilibrium,  when  he  continued  to  clutch  it  as  a  bri¬ 
dle.  The  horse  wanted  no  spur  under  such  a  rider,  and,  the 
already  loosened  bridle  offering  no  resistance,  darted  off  across 
the  piazza,  with  the  monkey,  clutching,  grinning,  and  blinking, 
on  his  neck. 

“  IL  cavallo !  Tl  Diavolo  !  ”  was  now  shouted  on  all  sides 
by  the  idle  rascals  who  gathered  from  all  quarters  of  the 
piazza,  and  was  echoed  in  tones  of  alarm  by  the  stall-keepers, 
whose  vested  interests  seemed  in  some  danger ;  while  the  doc¬ 
tor,  out  of  his  wits  with  confused  terror  at  the  Devil,  the  pos¬ 
sible  stoning,  and  the  escape  of  his  horse,  took  to  his  heels 
with  spectacles  on  nose,  lathered  face,  and  the  shaving-cloth 
about  his  neck,  crying  —  “  Stop  him  !  stop  him !  for  a  powder 

—  a  florin  —  stop  him  for  a  florin  !  ’’  while  the  lads,  outstrip¬ 
ping  him,  clapped  their  hands  and  shouted  encouragement  to 
the  runaway. 

The  oerretano,  who  had  not  bargained  for  the  flight  of  his 
monkey  along  with  the  horse,  had  caught  up  his  petticoats 
with  much  celerity,  and  showed  a  pair  of  parti-colored  hose 
above  his  contadina’s  shoes,  far  in  advance  of  the  doctor.  And 
away  went  the  grotesque  race  up  the  Corso  degli  Adimari 

—  the  horse  with  the  singular  jockey,  the  contadina  with  the 
remarkable  hose,  and  the  doctor  in  lather  and  spectacles,  with 
furred  mantle  outflying. 

It  was  a  scene  such  as  Florentines  loved,  from  the  potent 
and  reverend  signor  going  to  council  in  his  lucco,  down  to  the 
grinning  youngster,  who  felt  himself  master  of  all  situations 
when  his  bag  was  filled  with  smooth  stones  from  the  con¬ 
venient  dry  bed  of  the  torrent.  The  gray-headed  Domenico 
Cennini  laughed  no  less  heartily  than  the  younger  men,  and 
Nello  was  triumphantly  secure  of  the  general  admiration, 

“Aha!”  he  exclaimed,  snapping  his  fingers  when  the  first 
burst  of  laughter  was  subsiding.  “  I  have  cleared  my  piazza 
of  that  unsavory  fly-trap,  mi  pare.  Maestro  Tacco  will  no 
more  come  here  again  to  sit  for  patients  than  he* will  take  to 
licking  marble  for  his  dinner.” 

“You  are  going  towards  the  Piazza  della  Signoria,  Messer 
Domenico,”  said  Macchiavelli.  “I  will  go  with  you,  and  we 


188 


ROMOLA. 


shall  perhaps  see  who  has  deserved  the  'palio  among  these 
racers.  Come,  Melema,  will  you  go  too  ?  ” 

It  had  been  precisely  Tito’s  intention  to  accompany  Cen- 
nini,  but  before  he  had  gone  many  steps,  he  was  called  back  by 
Nello,  who  saw  Maso  approaching. 

Maso’s  message  was  from  Eomola.  She  wished  Tito  to  go 
to  the  Via  de’  Bardi  as  soon  as  possible.  She  would  see  him 
under  the  loggia,  at  the  top  of  the  house,  as  she  wished  to 
speak  to  him  alone. 


CHAPTER  XVIL 

UNDER  THE  LOGGIA. 

The  loggia  at  the  top  of  Bardo’s  house  rose  above  the  build, 
ings  on  each  side  of  it,  and  formed  a  gallery  round  quadran¬ 
gular  walls.  On  the  side  towards  the  street  the  roof  was 
supported  by  columns ;  but  on  the  remaining  sides,  by  a  wall 
pierced  with  arched  openings,  so  that  at  the  back,  looking  over 
a  crowd  of  irregular,  poorly  built  dwellings  towards  the  hill  of 
Bogoli,  Eomola  could  at  all  times  have  a  walk  sheltered  from 
observation.  Near  one  of  those  arched  openings,  close  to  the 
door  by  which  he  had  entered  the  loggia,  Tito  awaited  her, 
with  a  sickening  sense  of  the  sunlight  that  slanted  before  him 
and  mingled  itself  with  the  ruin  of  his  hopes.  He  had  never 
for  a  moment  relied  on  Eomola’s  passion  for  him  as  likely  to 
be  too  strong  for  the  repulsion  created  by  the  discovery  of  his 
secret ;  he  had  not  the  presumptuous  vanity  which  might  have 
hindered  him  from  feeling  that  her  love  had  the  same  root 
with  her  belief  in  him.  But  as  he  imagined  her  coming 
towards  him  in  her  radiant  beauty,  made  so  lovably  mortal 
by  her  soft  hazel  eyes,  he  fell  into  wishing  that  she  had  been 
something  lower,  if  it  were  only  that  she  might  let  him  clasp 
her  and  kiss  her  before  they  parted.  He  had  had  no  real 
caress  from  her  —  nothing  but  now  and  then  a  long  glance,  a 
kiss,  a  pressure  of  the  hand ;  and  he  had  so  often  longed  that 


UNDER  THE  LOGGIA. 


189 


they  should  be  alone  together.  They  were  going  to  be  alone 
now  ;  but  he  saw  her  standing  inexorably  aloof  from  him. 
His  heart  gave  a  great  throb  as  he  saw  the  door  move  :  Ro- 
mola  was  there.  It  was  all  like  a  flash  of  lightning :  he  felt, 
rather  than  saw,  the  glory  about  her  head,  the  tearful  appeal¬ 
ing  eyes ;  he  felt,  rather  than  heard,  the  cry  of  love  with 
which  she  said,  “  Tito  !  ” 

And  in  the  same  moment  she  was  in  his  arms,  and  sobbing 
with  her  face  against  his. 

How  poor  Romola  had  yearned  through  the  watches  of  the 
night  to  see  that  bright  face  !  The  new  image  of  death ;  the 
strange  bewildering  doubt  infused  into  her  by  the  story  of  a 
life  removed  from  her  understanding  and  sympathy ;  the 
haunting  vision,  which  she  seemed  not  only  to  hear  uttered  by 
the  low  gasping  voice,  but  to  live  through,  as  if  it  had  been 
her  own  dream,  had  made  her  more  conscious  than  ever  that  it 
was  Tito  who  had  first  brought  the  warm  stream  of  hope  and 
gladness  into  her  life,  and  who  had  first  turned  away  the  keen 
edge  .of  pain  in  the  remembrance  of  her  brother.  She  would 
tell  Tito  everything ;  there  was  no  one  else  to  whom  she  could 
tell  it.  She  had  been  restraining  herself  in  the  presence  of 
her  father  all  the  morning ;  but  now,  that  long-pent-up  sob 
might  come  forth.  Proud  and  self-controlled  to  all  the  world 
beside,  Romola  was  as  simple  and  unreserved  as  a  child  in  her 
love  for  Tito.  She  had  been  quite  contented  with  the  days 
when  they  had  only  looked  at  each  other ;  but  now,  when  she 
felt  the  need  of  clinging  to  him,  there  was  no  thought  that 
hindered  her. 

“  My  Romola !  my  goddess  !  ”  Tito  murmured  with  pas¬ 
sionate  fondness,  as  he  clasped  her  gently,  and  kissed  the  thick 
golden  ripples  on  her  neck.  He  was  in  paradise  :  disgrace, 
shame,  parting  —  there  was  no  fear  of  them  any  longer.  This 
happiness  was  too  strong  to  be  marred  by  the  sense  that 
Romola  was  deceived  in  him  ;  nay,  he  could  only  rejoice  in 
her  delusion  ;  for,  after  all,  concealment  had  been  wisdom. 
The  only  thing  he  eould  regret  was  his  needless  dread  ;  if, 
indeed,  the  dread  had  not  been  worth  sulfering  for  the  sake  of 
this  sudden  rapture. 


190 


ROMOLA. 


The  sob  had  satisfied  itself,  and  Romola  raised  her  head. 
Neither  of  them  spoke ;  they  stood  looking  at  each  other’s 
faces  with  that  sweet  wonder  which  belongs  to  young  love  — 
she  with  her  long  white  hands  on  the  dark-brown  curls,  and 
he  with  his  dark  fingers  bathed  in  the  streaming  gold.  Each 
was  so  beautiful  to  the  other  ;  each  was  experiencing  that  un¬ 
disturbed  mutual  consciousness  for  the  first  time.  The  cold 
pressure  of  a  new  sadness  on  Romola’s  heart  made  her  linger 
the  more  in  that  silent  soothing  sense  of  nearness  and  love ; 
and  Tito  could  not  even  seek  to  press  his  lips  to  hers,  because 
that  would  be  change. 

Tito,”  she  said  at  last,  “  it  has  been  altogether  painful, 
but  I  must  tell  you  everything.  Your  strength  will  help  me  to 
resist  the  impressions  that  will  not  be  shaken  off  by  reason.” 

“  I  know,  Romola  —  I  know  he  is  dead,”  said  Tito  ;  and  the 
long  lustrous  eyes  told  nothing  of  the  many  wishes  that  would 
have  brought  about  that  death  long  ago  if  there  had  been 
such  potency  in  mere  wishes.  Romola  only  read  her  own. 
pure  thoughts  in  their  dark  depths,  as  we  read  letters  in 
happy  dreams. 

“  So  changed,  Tito !  It  pierced  me  to  think  that  it  was 
Dino.  And  so  strangely  hard :  not  a  word  to  my  father ; 
nothing  but  a  vision  that  he  wanted  to  tell  me.  And  yet  it 
was  so  piteous  —  the  struggling  breath,  and  the  eyes  that 
seemed  to  look  towards  the  crucifix,  and  yet  not  to  see  it.  I 
shall  never  forget  it ;  it  seems  as  if  it  would  come  between  me 
and  everything  I  shall  look  at.” 

Romola’s  heart  swelled  again,  so  that  she  was  forced  to 
break  off.  But  the  need  she  felt  to  disburden  her  mind  to 
Tito  urged  her  to  repress  the  rising  anguish.  When  she 
began  to  speak  again,  her  thoughts  had  travelled  a  little. 

“  It  was  strange,  Tito.  The  vision  was  about  our  marriage, 
and  yet  he  knew  nothing  of  you.” 

What  was  it,  my  Romola  ?  Sit  down  and  tell  me,”  said 
Tito,  leading  her  to  the  bench  that  stood  near.  A  fear  had 
come  across  him  lest  the  vision  should  somehow  or  other 
relate  to  Baldassarre ;  and  this  sudden  change  of  feeling 
prompted  him  to  seek  a  change  of  position. 


UNDER  THE  LOGGIA. 


191 


Romola  told  him  all  that  had  passed,  from  her  entrance  into 
San  Marco,  hardly  leaving  out  one  of  her  brother’s  words, 
which  had  burnt  themselves  into  her  memory  as  they  were 
spoken.  But  when  she  was  at  the  end  of  the  vision,  she 
paused ;  the  rest  came  too  vividly  before  her  to  be  uttered, 
and  she  sat  looking  at  the  distance,  almost  unconscious  for  the 
moment  that  Tito  was  near  her.  His  mind  was  at  ease  now  ; 
that  vague  vision  had  passed  over  him  like  white  mist,  and 
left  no  mark.  But  he  was  silent,  expecting  her  to  speak 
again. 

I  took  it,”  she  went  on,  as  if  Tito  had  been  reading  her 
thoughts ;  “  I  took  the  crucifix ;  it  is  down  below  in  my 
bedroom.” 

“  And  now,  my  Romola,”  said  Tito,  entreatingly,  “  you  will 
banish  these  ghastly  thoughts.  The  vision  was  an  ordinary 
monkish  vision,  bred  of  fasting  and  fanatical  ideas.  It  surely 
has  no  weight  with  you.” 

“  No,  Tito  ;  no.  But  poor  Dino,  he  believed  it  was  a  divine 
message.  It  is  strange,”  she  went  on  meditatively,  “  this  life 
of  men  possessed  with  fervid  beliefs  that  seem  like  madness 
to  their  fellow-beings.  Dino  was  not  a  vulgar  fanatic ;  and 
that  Fra  Girolamo,  his  very  voice  seems  to  have  penetrated 
me  with  a  sense  that  there  is  some  truth  in  what  moves  them ; 
some  truth  of  which  I  know  nothing.” 

“  It  was  only  because  your  feelings  were  highly  wrought, 
my  Romola.  Your  brother’s  state  of  mind  was  no  more  than 
a  form  of  that  theosophy  which  has  been  the  common  disease 
of  excitable  dreamy  minds  in  all  ages ;  the  same  ideas  that 
your  father’s  old  antagonist,  Marsilio  Ficino,  pores  over  in  the 
New  Platonists  ;  only  your  brother’s  passionate  nature  drove 
him  to  act  out  what  other  men  write  and  talk  about.  And  for 
Fra  Girolamo,  he  is  simply  a  narrow-minded  monk,  with  a  gift 
of  preaching  and  infusing  terror  into  the  multitude.  Any 
words  or  any  voice  would  have  shaken  you  at  that  moment. 
When  your  mind  has  had  a  little  repose,  you  will  judge  of 
such  things  as  you  have  always  done  before.” 

“Not  about  poor  Dino,”  said  Romola.  “I  was  angry  with 
him ;  my  heart  seemed  to  close  against  him  while  he  was 


192 


EOMOLA. 


speaking ;  but  since  then  I  have  thought  less  of  what  was  in 
my  own  mind  and  more  of  what  was  in  his.  Oh,  Tito  !  it 
was  very  piteous  to  see  his  young  life  coming  to  an  end  in 
that  way.  That  yearning  look  at  the  crucifix  when  he  was 
gasping  for  breath  —  I  can  never  forget  it.  Last  night  I 
looked  at  the  crucifix  a  long  while,  and  tried  to  see  that  it 
would  help  him,  until  at  last  it  seemed  to  me  by  the  lamplight 
as  if  the  suffering  face  shed  pity.” 

My  Komola,  promise  me  to  resist  such  thoughts ;  they 
are  fit  for  sickly  nuns,  not  for  my  golden-tressed  Aurora,  who 
looks  made  to  scatter  all  such  twilight  fantasies.  Try  not  to 
think  of  them  now  ;  we  shall  not  long  be  alone  together.” 

The  last  words  were  uttered  in  a  tone  of  tender  beseeching, 
and  he  turned  her  face  towards  him  with  a  gentle  touch  of  his 
right  hand. 

Romola  had  had  her  eyes  fixed  absently  on  the  arched  open¬ 
ing,  but  she  had  not  seen  the  distant  hill ;  she  had  all  the 
while  been  in  the  chapter-house,  looking  at  the  pale  images  of 
sorrow  and  death. 

Tito’s  touch  and  beseeching  voice  recalled  her  ;  and  now  in 
the  warm  sunlight  she  saw  that  rich  dark  beauty  which  seemed 
to  gather  round  it  all  images  of  joy  —  purple  vines  festooned 
between  the  elms,  the  strong  corn  perfecting  itself  under  the 
vibrating  heat,  bright-winged  creatures  hurrying  and  resting 
among  the  flowers,  round  limbs  beating  the  earth  in  gladness 
with  cymbals  held  aloft,  light  melodies  chanted  to  the  thrill¬ 
ing  rhythm  of  strings  —  all  objects  and  all  sounds  that  tell  of 
Nature  revelling  in  her  force.  Strange,  bewildering  transi¬ 
tion  from  those  pale  images  of  sorrow  and  death  to  this  bright 
youthfulness,  as  of  a  sun-god  who  knew  nothing  of  night ! 
What  thought  could  reconcile  that  worn  anguish  in  her  broth¬ 
er’s  face — that  straining  after  something  invisible  —  with  this 
satisfied  strength  and  beauty,  and  make  it  intelligible  that 
they  belonged  to  the  same  world  ?  Or  was  there  never  any 
reconciling  of  them,  but  only  a  blind  worship  of  clashing 
deities,  first  in  mad  joy  and  then  in  wailing  ?  Eomola  for  the 
first  time  felt  this  questioning  need  like  a  sudden  uneasy  dizzi¬ 
ness  and  want  of  something  to  grasp ;  it  was  an  experience 


UNDER  THE  LOGGIA. 


193 


hardly  longer  than  a  sigh,  for  the  eager  theorizing  of  ages  is 
compressed,  as  in  a  seed,  in  the  momentary  want  of  a  single 
mind.  But  there  was  no  answer  to  meet  the  need,  and  it  van¬ 
ished  before  the  returning  rush  of  young  sympathy  with  the 
glad  loving  beauty  that  beamed  upon  her  in  new  radiance,  like 
the  dawn  after  we  have  looked  away  from  it  to  the  gray  west. 

“  Your  mind  lingers  apart  from  our  love,  my  Bomola,”  Tito 
said,  with  a  soft  reproachful  murmur.  It  seems  a  forgotten 
thing  to  you.” 

She  looked  at  the  beseeching  eyes  in  silence,  till  the  sadness 
all  melted  out  of  her  own. 

“  My  joy  !  ”  she  said,  in  her  full  clear  voice. 

“  Do  you  really  care  for  me  enough,  then,  to  banish  those 
chill  fancies,  or  shall  you  always  be  suspecting  me  as  the 
Great  Tempter  ?  ”  said  Tito,  with  his  bright  smile. 

“  How  should  I  not  care  for  you  more  than  for  everything 
else  ?  Everything  I  had  felt  before  in  all  my  life  —  about 
my  father,  and  about  my  loneliness  —  was  a  preparation  to 
love  you.  You  would  laugh  at  me,  Tito,  if  you  knew  what 
sort  of  man  I  used  to  think  I  should  marry  —  some  scholar 
with  deep  lines  in  his  face,  like  Alamanno  E-inuccini,  and  with 
rather  gray  hair,  who  would  agree  with  my  father  in  taking 
the  side  of  the  Aristotelians,  and  be  willing  to  live  with  him. 
I  used  to  think  about  the  love  I  read  of  in  the  poets,  but  I 
never  dreamed  that  anything  like  that  could  happen  to  me 
here  in  Florence  in  our  old  library.  And  then  you  came,  Tito, 
and  were  so  much  to  my  father,  and  I  began  to  believe  that 
life  could  be  happy  for  me  too.” 

“  My  goddess  !  is  there  any  woman  like  you  ?  ”  said  Tito, 
with  a  mixture  of  fondness  and  wondering  admiration  at  the 
blended  majesty  and  simplicity  in  her. 

‘‘But,  dearest,”  he  went  on,  rather  timidly,  “if  you  minded 
more  about  our  marriage,  you  would  persuade  your  father  and 
Messer  Bernardo  not  to  think  of  any  more  delays.  But  you 
seem  not  to  mind  about  it.” 

“  Yes,  Tito,  I  will,  I  do  mind.  But  I  am  sure  my  godfather 
will  urge  more  delay  now,  because  of  Dino’s  death.  He  has 
never  agreed  with  my  father  about  disowning  Dino,  and  you 


194 


ROMOLA. 


know  he  has  always  said  that  we  ought  to  wait  until  you  have 
been  at  least  a  year  in  Florence.  Do  not  think  hardly  of  my 
godfather.  I  know  he  is  prejudiced  and  narrow,  but  yet  he  is 
very  noble.  He  has  often  said  that  it  is  folly  in  my  father  to 
want  to  keep  his  library  apart,  that  it  may  bear  his  name ;  yet 
he  would  try  to  get  my  father’s  wish  carried  out.  That  seems 
to  me  very  great  and  noble  —  that  power  of  respecting  a  feel¬ 
ing  which  he  does  not  share  or  understand.” 

“  I  have  no  rancor  against  Messer  Bernardo  for  thinking 
you  too  precious  for  me,  my  Romola,”  said  Tito :  and  that 
was  true.  “But  your  father,  then,  knows  of  his  son’s  death?” 

“Yes,  I  told  him  —  I  could  not  help  it.  I  told  him  where  1 
had  been,  and  that  I  had  seen  Dino  die ;  but  nothing  else,  and 
he  has  commanded  me  not  to  speak  of  it  again.  But  he  has 
been  very  silent  this  morning,  and  has  had  those  restless  move¬ 
ments  which  always  go  to  my  heart ;  they  look  as  if  he  were 
trying  to  get  outside  the  prison  of  his  blindness.  Let  us  go 
to  him  now.  I  had  persuaded  him  to  try  to  sleep,  because  he 
slept  little  in  the  night.  Your  voice  will  soothe  him,  Tito :  it 
always  does.” 

“  And  not  one  kiss  ?  I  have  not  had  one,”  said  Tito,  in  his 
gentle  reproachful  tone,  which  gave  him  an  air  of  dependence 
very  charming  in  a  creature  with  those  rare  gifts  that  seem  to 
excuse  presumption. 

The  sweet  pink  blush  spread  itself  with  the  quickness  of 
light  over  Romola’s  face  and  neck  as  she  bent  towards  him. 
It  seemed  impossible  that  their  kisses  could  ever  become 
common  things. 

“Let  us  walk  once  round  the  loggia,”  said  Romola,  “before 
we  go  down.” 

“There  is  something  grim  and  grave  to  me  always  about 
Florence,”  said  Tito,  as  they  paused  in  the  front  of  the  house, 
where  they  could  see  over  the  opposite  roofs  to  the  other  side 
of  the  river,  “  and  even  in  its  merriment  there  is  something 
shrill  and  hard  —  biting  rather  than  gay.  I  wish  we  lived  in 
Southern  Ital}",  where  thought  is  broken,  not  by  weariness,  but 
by  delicious  languors  such  as  never  seem  to  come  over  the 
Tngenia  acerrima  Florentina.’  I  should  like  to  see  you  under 


THE  PORTRAIT. 


195 


that  southern  sun,  lying  among  the  flowers,  snbdued  into  mere 
enjoyment,  while  I  bent  over  you  and  touched  the  lute  and 
sang  to  you  some  little  unconscious  strain  that  seemed  all  one 
with  the  light  and  the  warmth.  You  have  never  known  that 
happiness  of  the  nymphs,  my  Romola.’’ 

“  No ;  but  I  have  dreamed  of  it  often  since  you  came. 
I  am  very  thirsty  for  a  deep  draught  of  joy  —  for  a  life  all 
bright  like  you.  But  we  will  not  think  of  it  now,  Tito  ;  it 
seems  to  me  as  if  there  would  always  be  pale  sad  faces  among 
the  flowers,  and  eyes  that  look  in  vain.  Let  us  go.” 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

THE  PORTRAIT. 

When  Tito  left  the  Via  de’  Bardi  that  day  in  exultant  satis¬ 
faction  at  finding  himself  thoroughly  free  from  the  threatened 
peril,  his  thoughts,  no  longer  claimed  by  the  immediate  pres¬ 
ence  of  Romola  and  her  father,  recurred  to  those  futile  hours 
of  dread  in  which  he  was  conscious  of  having  not  only  felt  but 
acted  as  he  would  not  have  done  if  he  had  had  a  truer  fore¬ 
sight.  He  would  not  have  parted  with  his  ring;  for  Romola, 
and  others  to  whom  it  was  a  familiar  object,  would  be  a  little 
struck  with  the  apparent  sordidness  of  parting  with  a  gem  he 
had  professedly  cherished,  unless  he  feigned  as  a  reason  the 
desire  to  make  some  special  gift  with  the  purchase-money; 
and  Tito  had  at  that  moment  a  nauseating  weariness  of  simu¬ 
lation.  He  was  well  out  of  the  possible  consequences  that 
might  have  fallen  on  him  from  that  initial  deception,  and  it 
was  no  longer  a  load  on  his  mind ;  kind  fortune  had  brought 
him  immunity,  and  he  thought  it  was  only  fair  that  she  should. 
Who  was  hurt  by  it  ?  The  results  to  Baldassarre  were  too 
problematical  to  be  taken  into  account.  But  he  wanted  now 
to  be  free  from  any  hidden  shackles  that  would  gall  him. 
though  ever  so  little,  under  his  ties  to  Romola.  He  was  not 


196 


ROMOLA. 


aware  that  that  very  delight  in  immunity  which  prompted 
resolutions  not  to  entangle  himself  again,  was  deadening  the 
sensibilities  which  alone  could  save  him  from  entanglement. 

But,  after  all,  the  sale  of  the  ring  was  a  slight  matter.  Was 
it  also  a  slight  matter  that  little  Tessa  was  under  a  delusion 
which  would  doubtless  fill  her  small  head  with  expectations 
doomed  to  disappointment?  Should  he  try  to  see  the  little 
thing  alone  again  and  undeceive  her  at  once,  or  should  he 
leave  the  disclosure  to  time  and  chance  ?  Happy  dreams  are 
pleasant,  and  they  easily  come  to  an  end  with  daylight  and 
the  stir  of  life.  The  sweet,  pouting,  innocent,  round  thing! 
It  was  impossible  not  to  think  of  her.  Tito  thought  he  should 
like  some  time  to  take  her  a  present  that  would  please  her, 
and  just  learn  if  her  stepfather  treated  her  more  cruelly  now 
her  mother  was  dead.  Or,  should  he  at  once  undeceive  Tessa, 
and  then  tell  Romola  about  her,  so  that  they  might  find  some 
happier  lot  for  the  poor  thing?  No:  that  unfortunate  little 
incident  of  the  cerretano  and  the  marriage,  and  his  allowing 
Tessa  to  part  from  him  in  delusion,  must  never  be  known  to 
Romola,  and  since  no  enlightenment  could  expel  it  from  Tessa’s 
mind,  there  would  always  be  a  risk  of  betrayal ;  besides,  even 
little  Tessa  might  have  some  gall  in  her  when  she  found  her¬ 
self  disappointed  in  her  love  —  yes,  she  must  be  a  little  in  love 
with  him,  and  that  might  make  it  well  that  he  should  not  see 
her  again.  Yet  it  was  a  trifling  adventure  such  as  a  country 
girl  would  perhaps  ponder  on  till  some  rndd}^  contadino  made 
acceptable  love  to  her,  when  she  would  break  her  resolution 
of  secrecy  and  get  at  the  truth  that  she  was  free.  Dunque  — 
good-by,  Tessa !  kindest  wishes  !  Tito  had  made  up  his  mind 
that  the  silly  little  affair  of  the  cerretano  should  have  no  further 
consequences  for  himself ;  and  people  are  apt  to  think  that 
resolutions  taken  on  their  own  behalf  will  be  firm.  As  for 
the  fifty-five  florins,  the  purchase-money  of  the  ring,  Tito 
had  made  up  his  mind  what  to  do  with  some  of  them;  he 
would  carry  out  a  pretty  ingenious  thought  which  would 
ftf't  him  more  at  ease  in  accounting  for  the  absence  of  his 
ring  to  Romola,  and  w^ould  also  serve  him  as  a  means  of  guard¬ 
ing  her  mind  from  the  recurrence  of  those  monkish  fancies 


THE  PORTRAIT. 


197 


whicli  were  especially  repugnant  to  him;  and  with  this  thought 
in  his  mind,  he  went  to  the  Via  Gualfonda  to  find  Piero  di 
Cosimo,  the  artist  who  at  that  time  was  pre-eminent  in  the 
fantastic  mythological  design  which  Tito’s  purpose  required. 

Entering  the  court  on  which  Piero’s  dwelling  opened,  Tito 
found  the  heavy  iron  knocker  on  the  door  thickly  bound  round 
with  wool  and  ingeniously  fastened  with  cords.  Kemembering 
the  painter’s  practice  of  stuffing  his  ears  against  obtrusive 
noises,  Tito  was  not  much  surprised  at  this  mode  of  defence 
against  visitors’  thunder,  and  betook  himself  first  to  tapping 
modestly  with  his  knuckles,  and  then  to  a  more  importunate 
attempt  to  shake  the  door.  In  vain  !  Tito  was  moving  away, 
blaming  himself  for  wasting  his  time  on  this  visit,  instead  of 
waiting  till  he  saw  the  painter  again  at  Nello’s,  when  a  little 
girl  entered  the  court  with  a  basket  of  eggs  on  her  arm,  went 
up  to  the  door,  and  standing  on  tiptoe,  pushed  up  a  small  iron 
plate  that  ran  in  grooves,  and  putting  her  mouth  to  the  aper¬ 
ture  thus  disclosed,  called  out  in  a  piping  voice,  “  Messer 
Piero  !  ” 

In  a  few  moments  Tito  heard  the  sound  of  bolts,  the  door 
opened,  and  Piero  presented  himself  in  a  red  nightcap  and  a 
loose  brown  serge  tunic,  with  sleeves  rolled  up  to  the  shoulder. 
He  darted  a  look  of  surprise  at  Tito,  but  without  further 
notice  of  him  stretched  out  his  hand  to  take  the  basket  from 
the  child,  re-entered  the  house,  and  presently  returning  with 
the  empty  basket,  said,  ‘‘  How  much  to  pay  ?  ” 

“  Two  grossoni,  Messer  Piero ;  they  are  already  boiled,  my 
mother  says.” 

Piero  took  the  coin  out  of  the  leathern  scarsella  at  his  belt, 
and  the  little  maiden  trotted  away,  not  without  a  few  upward 
glances  of  awed  admiration,  at  the  surprising  young  signor. 

Piero’s  glance  was  much  less  complimentary  as  he  said  — 

“What  do  you  want  at  my  door,  Messer  Greco  ?  I  saw  you 
this  morning  at  Nello ’s ;  if  you  had  asked  me  then,  I  could 
have  told  you  that  I  see  no  man  in  this  house  without  know¬ 
ing  his  business  and  agreeing  with  him  beforehand.” 

“  Pardon,  Messer  Piero,”  said  Tito,  with  his  imperturbable 
good-humor  ;  “  I  acted  without  sufficient  reflection.  I  remem- 


198 


ROMOLA. 


bered  nothing  but  yonr  admirable  skill  in  inventing  pretty 
caprices,  when  a  sudden  desire  for  something  of  that  sort 
prompted  me  to  come  to  you.” 

The  painter’s  manners  were  too  notoriously  odd  to  all  the 
world  for  this  reception  to  be  held  a  special  affront ;  but  even 
if  Tito  had  suspected  any  offensive  intention,  the  impulse  to 
resentment  would  have  been  less  strong  in  him  than  the  desire 
to  conquer  good-will. 

Piero  made  a  grimace  which  was  habitual  with  him  when 
he  was  spoken  to  with  flattering  suavity.  He  grinned, 
stretched  out  the  corners  of  his  mouth,  and  pressed  down  his 
brows,  so  as  to  defy  any  divination  of  his  feelings  under  that 
kind  of  stroking. 

“  And  what  may  that  need  be  ?  ”  he  said,  after  a  moment’s 
pause.  In  his  heart  he  was  tempted  by  the  hinted  opportu¬ 
nity  of  applying  his  invention. 

“  I  want  a  very  delicate  miniature  device  taken  from  certain 
fables  of  the  poets,  which  you  will  know  how  to  combine  for 
me.  It  must  be  painted  on  a  wooden  case  —  I  will  show  you 
the  size  —  in  the  form  of  a  triptych.  The  inside  may  be  sim¬ 
ple  gilding :  it  is  on  the  outside  I  want  the  device.  It  is  a 
favorite  subject  with  you  Florentines  —  the  triumph  of  Bacchus 
and  Ariadne ;  but  I  want  it  treated  in  a  new  way.  A  story  in 
Ovid  will  give  you  the  necessary  hints.  The  young  Bacchus 
must  be  seated  in  a  ship,  his  head  bound  with  clusters  of 
grapes,  and  a  spear  entwined  with  vine-leaves  in  his  hand: 
dark-berried  ivy  must  wind  about  the  masts  and  sails,  the  oars 
must  be  thyrsi,  and  flowers  must  wreathe  themselves  about 
the  poop  ;  leopards  and  tigers  must  be  crouching  before  him, 
and  dolphins  must  be  sporting  round.  But  I  want  to  have  the 
fair-haired  Ariadne  with  him,  made  immortal  with  her  golden 
crown  —  that  is  not  in  Ovid’s  story,  but  no  matter,  you  will 
conceive  it  all  —  and  above  there  must  be  young  Loves,  such  as 
you  know  how  to  paint,  shooting  with  roses  at  the  points  of 
their  arrows  —  ” 

“  Say  no  more  !  ”  said  Piero.  “  I  have  Ovid  in  the  vulgar 
tongue.  Find  me  the  passage.  I  love  not  to  be  choked  with 
other  men’s  thoughts.  You  may  come  in.” 


THE  PORTRAIT. 


199 


Piero  led  the  way  through  the  first  room,  where  a  basket  of 
eggs  was  deposited  on  the  open  hearth,  near  a  heap  of  broken 
egg-shells  and  a  bank  of  ashes.  In  strange  keeping  with  that 
sordid  litter,  there  was  a  low  bedstead  of  carved  ebony,  covered 
carelessly  with  a  piece  of  rich  oriental  carpet,  that  looked  as 
if  it  had  served  to  cover  the  steps  to  a  Madonna’s  throne  ;  and 
a  carved  cassone,  or  large  chest,  with  painted  devices  on  its 
sides  and  lid.  There  was  hardly  any  other  furniture  in  the 
large  room,  except  casts,  wooden  steps,  easels,  and  rough  boxes, 
all  festooned  with  cobwebs. 

The  next  room  was  still  larger,  but  it  was  also  much  more 
crowded.  Apparently  Piero  was  keeping  the  Festa,  for  the 
double  door  underneath  the  window  which  admitted  the  paint¬ 
er’s  light  from  above,  was  thrown  open,  and  showed  a  garden, 
or  rather  thicket,  in  which  fig-trees  and  vines  grew  in  tangled 
trailing  wildness  among  nettles  and  hemlocks,  and  a  tall  cy¬ 
press  lifted  its  dark  head  from  a  stifling  mass  of  yellowish 
mulberry-leaves.  It  seemed  as  if  that  dank  luxuriance  had 
begun  to  penetrate  even  within  the  walls  of  the  wide  and  lofty 
room  ;  for  in  one  corner,  amidst  a  confused  heap  of  carved 
marble  fragments  and  rusty  armor,  tufts  of  long  grass  and 
dark  feathery  fennel  had  made  their  way,  and  a  large  stone 
vase,  tilted  on  one  side,  seemed  to  be  pouring  out  the  ivy 
that  streamed  around.  All  about  the  walls  hung  pen  and 
oil  sketches  of  fantastic  sea-monsters  ;  dances  of  satyrs  and 
maenads ;  Saint  Margaret’s  resurrection  out  of  the  devouring 
dragon ;  Madonnas  with  the  supernal  light  upon  them  ;  studies 
of  plants  and  grotesque  heads ;  and  on  irregular  rough  shelves 
•  a  few  books  were  scattered  among  great  drooping  bunches 
of  corn,  bullocks’  horns,  pieces  of  dried  honeycomb,  stones 
with  patches  of  rare-colored  lichen,  skulls  and  bones,  peacocks’ 
feathers,  and  large  birds’  wings.  Rising  from  among  the  dirty 
litter  of  the  floor  were  lay  figures  :  one  in  the  frock  of  a 
Vallombrosan  monk,  strangely  surmounted  by  a  helmet  wuth 
barred  visor,  another  smothered  with  brocade  and  skins  hastily 
tossed  over  it.  Among  this  heterogeneous  still-life,  several 
speckled  and  white  pigeons  were  perched  or  strutting,  too 
tame  to  fly  at  the  entrance  of  men;  three  corpulent  toads 


200 


ROMOLA. 


were  crawling  in  an  intimate  friendly  way  near  the  door- 
stone  ;  and  a  white  ra.bbit,  apparently  the  model  for  that 
which  was  frightening  Cupid  in  the  picture  of  Mars  and 
Venus  placed  on  the  central  easel,  was  twitching  its  nose 
with  much  content  on  a  box  full  of  bran. 

‘‘  And  now,  Messer  Greco,”  said  Piero,  making  a  sign  to 
Tito  that  he  might  sit  down  on  a  low  stool  near  the  door,  and 
then  standing  over  him  with  folded  arms,  “  don’t  be  trying  to 
see  everything  at  once,  like  Messer  Domeneddio,  but  let  me 
know  how  large  you  would  have  this  same  triptych.” 

Tito  indicated  the  desired  dimensions,  and  Piero  marked 
them  on  a  piece  of  paper. 

‘‘And  now  for  the  book,”  said  Piero,  reaching  down  a  manu¬ 
script  volume. 

“  There ’s  nothing  about  the  Ariadne  there,”  said  Tito,  giv¬ 
ing  him  the  passage  ;  “  but  you  will  remember  I  want  the 
crowned  Ariadne  by  the  side  of  the  young  Bacchus  ;  she  must 
have  golden  hair.” 

“  Ha !  ”  said  Piero,  abruptly,  pursing  up  his  lips  again. 
“And  you  want  them  to  be  likenesses,  eh  ?”  he  added,  look¬ 
ing  down  into  Tito’s  face. 

Tito  laughed  and  blushed.  “  I  know  you  are  great  at  por¬ 
traits,  Messer  Piero;  but  I  could  not  ask  Ariadne  to  sit  for 
you,  because  the  painting  is  a  secret.” 

“There  it  is !  I  want  her  to  sit  to  me.  Giovanni  Vespucci 
wants  me  to  paint  him  a  picture  of  CEdipus  and  Antigone 
at  Colonos,  as  he  has  expounded  it  to  me :  I  have  a  fancy 
for  the  subject,  and  I  want  Bardo  and  his  daughter  to  sit  for 
it.  Now,  you  ask  them ;  and  then  I  ’ll  put  the  likeness  into 
Ariadne.” 

“  Agreed,  if  I  can  prevail  with  them.  And  your  price  for 
the  Bacchus  and  Ariadne  ?  ” 

Baie!  If  you  get  them  to  let  me  paint  them,  that  will 
pay  me.  I ’d  rather  not  have  your  money :  you  may  pay  for 
the  case.” 

“And  when  shall  I  sit  for  you?”  said  Tito;  “for  if  we  have 
one  likeness,  we  must  have  two.” 

“  I  don’t  want  your  likeness ;  I ’ve  got  it  already,”  said 


THE  PORTRAIT.  201 

Piero,  “  only  I ’ve  made  you  look  frigktened.  I  must  take  the 
fright  out  of  it  for  Bacchus.” 

As  he  was  speaking,  Piero  laid  down  the  book  and  went  to 
look  among  some  paintings,  propped  with  their  faces  against 
the  wall.  He  returned  with  an  oil-sketch  in  his  hand. 

“  I  call  this  as  good  a  bit  of  portrait  as  I  ever  did,”  he  said, 
looking  at  it  as  he  advanced.  ‘‘Yours  is  a  face  that  expresses 
fear  well,  because  it’s  naturally  a  bright  one.  I  noticed  it 
the  first  time  I  saw  you.  The  rest  of  the  picture  is  hardly 
sketched ;  but  I ’ve  painted  yo%i  in  thoroughly.” 

Piero  turned  the  sketch,  and  held  it  towards  Tito’s  eyes.  He 
saw  himself  with  his  right  hand  uplifted,  holding  a  wine-cup,  in 
the  attitude  of  triumphant  joy,  but  with  his  face  turned  away 
from  the  cup  with  an  expression  of  such  intense  fear  in  the 
dilated  eyes  and  pallid  lips  that  he  felt  a  cold  stream  through 
his  veins,  as  if  he  were  being  thrown  into  sympathy  with  his 
imaged  self. 

“  You  are  beginning  to  look  like  it  already,”  said  Piero,  with 
a  short  laugh,  moving  the  picture  away  again.  “  He ’s  seeing 
a  ghost  —  that  fine  young  man.  I  shall  finish  it  some  day, 
when  I ’ve  settled  what  sort  of  ghost  is  the  most  terrible  — 
whether  it  should  look  solid,  like  a  dead  man  come  to  life,  or 
half  transparent,  like  a  mist.” 

Tito,  rather  ashamed  of  himself  for  a  sudden  sensitive¬ 
ness  strangely  opposed  to  his  usual  easy  self-command,  said 
carelessly  — 

“  That  is  a  subject  after  your  own  heart,  Messer  Piero  — a 
revel  interrupted  by  a  ghost.  You  seem  to  love  the  blending 
of  the  terrible  with  the  gay.  I  suppose  that  is  the  reason  your 
shelves  are  well  furnished  with  death’s-heads,  while  you  are 
painting  those  roguish  Loves  who  are  running  away  with  the 
armor  of  Mars.  I  begin  to  think  you  are  a  Cynic  philosopher 
in  the  pleasant  disguise  of  a  cunning  painter.” 

“Hot  I,  Messer  Greco ;  a  philosopher  is  the  last  sort  of  ani¬ 
mal  I  should  choose  to  resemble.  I  find  it  enough  to  live, 
without  spinning  lies  to  account  for  life.  Fowls  cackle,  asses 
bray,  women  chatter,  and  philosophers  spin  false  reasons  — 
that’s  the  effect  the  sight  of  the  world  brings  out  of  them. 


m 


HOMOLA. 


Well,  I  am  an  animal  that  paints  instead  of  cackling,  or  bray¬ 
ing,  or  spinning  lies.  And  now,  I  think,  our  business  is  done  ; 
you  ’ll  keep  to  your  side  of  the  bargain  about  the  CEdipus  and 
Antigone  ?  ” 

“  I  will  do  my  best,”  said  Tito  —  on  this  strong  hint,  imme¬ 
diately  moving  towards  the  door. 

“  And  you  ’ll  let  me  know  at  Nello’s.  No  need  to  come  here 
again.” 

“I  understand,”  said  Tito,  laughingly,  lifting  his  hand  in 
sign  of  friendly  parting. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE  OLD  man’s  HOPE. 

Messer  Bernardo  del  Nero  was  as  inexorable  as  Romola 
had  expected  in  his  advice  that  the  marriage  should  be  de¬ 
ferred  till  Easter,  and  in  this  matter  Bardo  was  entirely  under 
the  ascendancy  of  his  sagacious  and  practical  friend.  Never¬ 
theless,  Bernardo  himself,  though  he  was  as  far  as  ever  from 
any  susceptibility  to  the  personal  fascination  in  Tito  which 
was  felt  by  others,  could  not  altogether  resist  that  argument 
of  success  which  is  always  powerful  with  men  of  the  world. 
Tito  was  making  his  way  rapidly  in  high  quarters.  He  was 
especially  growing  in  favor  with  the  young  Cardinal  Giovanni 
de’  Medici,  who  had  even  spoken  of  Tito’s  forming  part  of  his 
learned  retinue  on  an  approaching  journey  to  Rome ;  and  the 
bright  young  Greek,  who  had  a  tongue  that  was  always  ready 
without  ever  being  quarrelsome,  was  more  and  more  wished 
for  at  gay  suppers  in  the  Via  Larga,  and  at  Florentine  games 
in  which  he  had  no  pretension  to  excel,  and  could  admire  the 
incomparable  skill  of  Piero  de’  Medici  in  the  most  grace¬ 
ful  manner  in  the  world.  By  an  unfailing  sequence,  Tito’s 
reputation  as  an  agreeable  companion  in  “magnificent”  so¬ 
ciety  made  his  learning  and  talent  appear  more  lustrous :  and 


THE  OLD  MAN’S  HOPE. 


m 


he  was  really  accomplished  enough  to  prevent  an  exaggerated 
estimate  from  being  hazardous  to  him.  Messer  Bernardo  had 
old  prejudices  and  attachments  which  now  began  to  argue 
down  the  newer  and  feebler  prejudice  against  the  young  Greek 
stranger  who  was  rather  too  supple.  To  the  old  Florentine  it 
was  impossible  to  despise  the  recommendation  of  standing  well 
with  the  best  Florentine  families,  and  since  Tito  began  to  be 
thoroughly  received  into  that  circle  whose  views  were  the  un¬ 
questioned  standard  of  social  value,  it  seemed  irrational  not  to 
admit  that  there  was  no  longer  any  check  to  satisfaction  in 
the  prospect  of  such  a  son-in-law  for  Bardo,  and  such  a  husband 
for  Komola.  It  was  undeniable  that  Tito’s  coming  had  been 
the  dawn  of  a  new  life  for  both  father  and  daughter,  and  the 
first  promise  had  even  been  surpassed.  The  blind  old  scholar 
—  whose  proud  truthfulness  would  never  enter  into  that  com¬ 
merce  of  feigned  and  preposterous  admiration  which,  varied 
by  a  corresponding  measurelessness  in  vituperation,  made  the 
woof  of  all  learned  intercourse  —  had  fallen  into  neglect  even 
among  his  fellow-citizens,  and  when  he  was  alluded  to  at  all,  it 
had  long  been  usual  to  say  that,  though  his  blindness  and  the  loss 
of  his  son  were  pitiable  misfortunes,  he  was  tiresome  in  contend¬ 
ing  for  the  value  of  his  own  labors ;  and  that  his  discontent  was 
a  little  inconsistent  in  a  man  who  had  been  openly  regardless  of 
religious  rites,  and  who  in  days  past  had  refused  offers  made  to 
him  from  various  quarters,  on  the  slight  condition  that  he  would 
take  orders,  without  which  it  was  not  easy  for  patrons  to  pro¬ 
vide  for  every  scholar.  But  since  Tito’s  coming,  there  was  no 
longer  the  same  monotony  in  the  thought  that  Bardo’s  name 
suggested;  the  old  man,  it  was  understood,  had  left  off  his 
plaints,  and  the  fair  daughter  was  no  longer  to  be  shut  up  in 
dowerless  pride,  waiting  for  ^  parentado.  The  winning  man¬ 
ners  and  growing  favor  of  the  handsome  Greek  who  was  ex¬ 
pected  to  enter  into  the  double  relation  of  son  and  husband 
helped  to  make  the  new  interest  a  thoroughly  friendly  one,  and 
it  was  no  longer  a  rare  occurrence  when  a  visitor  enlivened  the 
quiet  library.  Elderly  men  came  from  that  indefinite  prompt¬ 
ing  to  renew  former  intercourse  which  arises  when  an  old  ac¬ 
quaintance  begins  to  be  newly  talked  about  j  and  young  men 


204 


ROMOLA. 


whom  Tito  had  asked  leave  to  bring  once,  found  it  easy  to  go 
again  when  they  overtook  him  on  his  way  to  the  Via  de’  Bardi, 
and,  resting  their  hands  on  his  shoulder,  fell  into  easy  chat 
with  him.  For  it  was  pleasant  to  look  at  Romola’s  beauty ;  to 
see  her,  like  old  Firenzuola’s  type  of  womanly  majesty,  ‘‘sitting 
with  a  certain  grandeur,  speaking  with  gravity,  smiling  with 
modesty,  and  casting  around,  as  it  were,  an  odor  of  queenli- 
ness ;  ”  ^  and  she  seemed  to  unfold  like  a  strong  white  lily  un¬ 
der  this  genial  breath  of  admiration  and  homage ;  it  was  all 
one  to  her  with  her  new  bright  life  in  Tito’s  love. 

Tito  had  even  been  the  means  of  strengthening  the  hope 
in  Bardo’s  mind  that  he  might  before  his  death  receive  the 
longed-for  security  concerning  his  library :  that  it  should  not 
be  merged  in  another  collection ;  that  it  should  not  be  trans¬ 
ferred  to  a  body  of  monks,  and  be  called  by  the  name  of 
a  monastery ;  but  that  it  should  remain  forever  the  Bardi 
Library,  for  the  use  of  Florentines.  For  the  old  habit  of 
trusting  in  the  Medici  could  not  die  out  while  their  influence 
was  still  the  strongest  lever  in  the  State ;  and  Tito,  once  pos¬ 
sessing  the  ear  of  the  Cardinal  Giovanni  de’  Medici,  might  do 
more  even  than  Messer  Bernardo  towards  winning  the  desired 
interest,  for  he  could  demonstrate  to  a  learned  audience  the 
peculiar  value  of  Bardi’s  collection.  Tito  himself  talked  san- 
guinely  of  such  a  result,  willing  to  cheer  the  old  man,  and 
conscious  that  Romola  repaid  those  gentle  words  to  her  father 
with  a  sort  of  adoration  that  no  direct  tribute  to  herself  could 
have  won  from  her. 

This  question  of  the  library  was  the  subject  of  more  than 
one  discussion  with  Bernardo  del  Nero  when  Christmas  was 
turned  and  the  prospect  of  the  marriage  was  becoming  near  — 
but  always  out  of  Bardo’s  hearing.  For  Bardo  nursed  a  vague 
belief,  which  they  dared  not  disturb,  that  his  property,  apart 
from  the  library,  was  adequate  to  meet  all  demands.  He 
would  not  even,  except  under  a  momentary  pressure  of  angry 

“  Quando  una  donna  e  grande,  ben  formata,  porta  ben  sua  persona,  siede 
con  una  certa  grandezza,  parla  con  gravita,  ride  con  modestia,  e  finalmente 
getta  quasi  un  odor  di  Regina ;  allora  noi  diciamo  quella  donna  pare  una 
maesta,  ella  ha  una  maesth.”  —  Firenzuola  :  Della  Bellezza  delle  Donne. 


THE  OLD  MAN’S  HOPE. 


205 


despondency,  admit  to  himself  that  the  will  by  which  he  had 
disinherited  Dino  would  leave  Komola  the  heir  of  nothing  biit 
debts ;  or  that  he'  needed  anything  from  patronage  beyond 
the  security  that  a  separate  locality  should  be  assigned  to  his 
library,  in  return  for  a  deed  of  gift  by  which  he  made  it  over 
to  the  Florentine  Republic. 

“  My  opinion  is,”  said  Bernardo  to  Roniola,  in  a  consulta¬ 
tion  they  had  under  the  loggia,  ‘‘that  since  you  are  to  be 
married,  and  Messer  Tito  will  have  a  competent  income,  we 
should  begin  to  wind  up  the  affairs,  and  ascertain  exactly  the 
sum  that  would  be  necessary  to  save  the  library  from  being 
touched,  instead  of  letting  the  debts  accumulate  any  longer. 
Your  father  needs  nothing  but  his  shred  of  mutton  and  his 
macaroni  every  day,  and  I 'think  Messer  Tito  may  engage  to 
supply  that  for  the  years  that  remain;  he  can  let  it  be  in 
place  of  the  morgen-cap.'” 

“  Tito  has  always  known  that  my  life  is  bound  up  with  my 
father’s,”  said  Romola ;  “  and  he  is  better  to  my  father  than 
I  am  ;  he  delights  in  making  him  happy.” 

“  Ah,  he ’s  not  made  of  the  same  clay  as  other  men,  is  he  ?  ” 
said  Bernardo,  smiling.  “  Thy  father  has  thought  of  shutting 
woman’s  folly  out  of  thee  by  cramming  thee  with  Greek  and 
Latin ;  but  thou  hast  been  as  ready  to  believe  in  the  first  pair 
of  bright  eyes  and  the  first  soft  words  that  have  come  within 
reach  of  thee,  as  if  thou  couldst  say  nothing  by  heart  but 
Paternosters,  like  other  Christian  men’s  daughters.” 

“Now,  godfather,”  said  Romola,  shaking  her  head  playfully, 
“  as  if  it  were  only  bright  eyes  and  soft  words  that  made  me 
love  Tito !  You  know  better.  You  know  I  love  my  father 
and  you  because  you  are  both  good,  and  I  love  Tito  too  be¬ 
cause  he  is  so  good.  I  see  it,  I  feel  it,  in  everything  he  says 
and  does.  And  if  he  is  handsome,  too,  why  should  I  not  love 
him  the  better  for  that  ?  It  seems  to  me  beauty  is  part  of 
the  finished  language  by  which  goodness  speaks.  You  know 
you  must  have  been  a  very  handsome  youth,  godfather”  — 
she  looked  up  with  one  of  her  happy,  loving  smiles  at  the 
stately  old  man  —  “  you  were  about  as  tall  as  Tito,  and  you  had 
very  fine  eyes ;  only  you  looked  a  little  sterner  and  prouder, 
and  —  ” 


206 


ROMOLA. 


“  And  Eomola  likes  to  have  all  the  pride  to  herself  ?  ’’  said 
Bernardo,  not  inaccessible  to  this  pretty  coaxing.  “  However, 
it  is  well  that  in  one  way  Tito’s  demands  are  more  modest 
than  those  of  any  Florentine  husband  of  fitting  rank  that 
we  should  have  been  likely  to  find  for  you ;  he  wants  no 
dowry.” 

So  it  was  settled  in  that  way  between  Messer  Bernardo  del 
Nero,  Eomola,  and  Tito.  Bardo  assented  with  a  wave  of  the 
hand  when  Bernardo  told  him  that  he  thought  it  would  be 
well  now  to  begin  to  sell  property  and  clear  off  debts ;  being 
accustomed  to  think  of  debts  and  property  as  a  sort  of  thick 
wood  that  his  imagination  never  even  penetrated,  still  less  got 
beyond.  And  Tito  set  about  winning  Messer  Bernardo’s  re¬ 
spect  by  inquiring,  with  his  ready  faculty,  into  Florentine 
money-matters,  the  secrets  of  the  Monti  or  public  funds,  the 
values  of  real  property,  and  the  profits  of  banking. 

You  will  scon  forget  that  Tito  is  not  a  Florentine,  god¬ 
father,”  said  Eomola.  ‘‘See  how  he  is  learning  everything 
about  Florence.” 

“  It  seems  to  me  fie  is  one  of  the  demoni,  who  are  of  no 
particular  country,  child,”  said  Bernardo,  smiling.  “  His  mind 
is  a  little  too  nimble  to  be  weighted  with  all  the  stuff  we  men 
carry  about  in  our  hearts.” 

Eomola  smiled  too,  in  happy  confidence. 


CHAPTEE  XX. 

THE  DAY  OF  THE  BETROTHAL. 

It  was  the  last  week  of  the  Carnival,  and  the  streets  of 
Florence  were  at  their  fullest  and  noisiest :  there  were  the 
masked  processions,  chanting  songs,  indispensable  now  they  had 
once  been  introduced  by  Lorenzo  the  Magnificent;  there  was  the 
favorite  rigoletto,  or  round  dance,  footed  “  in  piazza  ”  under  the 
blue  frosty  sky ;  there  were  practical  jokes  of  all  sorts,  from 


THE  DAY  OF  THE  BETROTHAL. 


207 


tlirowing  comfits  to  throwing  stones  —  especially  stones.  For 
the  boys  and  striplings,  always  a  strong  element  in  Florentine 
crowds,  became  at  the  height  of  Carnival-time  as  loud  and  un¬ 
manageable  as  tree-crickets,  and  it  was  their  immemorial  privi¬ 
lege  to  bar  the  way  with  poles  to  all  passengers,  until  a  tribute 
had  been  paid  towards  furnishing  those  lovers  of  strong  sensa¬ 
tions  with  suppers  and  bonfires  :  to  conclude  with  the  standing 
entertainment  of  stone-throwing,  which  was  not  entirely  monoto¬ 
nous,  since  the  consequent  maiming  was  various,  and  it  was 
not  always  a  single  person  who  was  killed.  So  that  the  pleas¬ 
ures  of  the  Carnival  were  of  a  checkered  kind,  and  if  a  painter 
were  called  upon  to  represent  them  truly,  he  would  have  to 
make  a  picture  in  which  there  would  be  so  much  gross  ness  and 
barbarity  that  it  must  be  turned  with  its  face  to  the  wall,  ex- 
cept  when  it  was  taken  down  for  the  grave  historical  purpose 
of  justifying  a  reforming  zeal  which,  in  ignorance  of  the  facts, 
might  be  unfairly  condemned  for  its  narrowness.  Still  there 
was  much  of  that  more  innocent  picturesque  merriment  which 
is  never  wanting  among  a  people  with  quick  animal  spirits 
and  sensitive  organs  :  there  was  not  the  heavy  sottishness  which 
belongs  to  the  thicker  northern  blood,  nor  the  stealthy  fierce¬ 
ness  which  in  the  more  southern  regions  of  the  peninsula  makes 
the  brawl  lead  to  the  dagger-thrust. 

It  was  the  high  morning,  but  the  merry  spirits  of  the  Car¬ 
nival  were  still  inclined  to  lounge  and  recapitulate  the  last 
nighCs  jests,  when  Tito  Melema  was  walking  at  a  brisk  pace 
on  the  way  to  the  Via  de’  Bardi.  Young  Bernardo  Dovizi, 
who  now  looks  at  us  out  of  Raphael’s  portrait  as  the  keen¬ 
eyed  Cardinal  da  Bibbiena,  was  with  him ;  and,  as  they  went, 
they  held  animated  talk  about  some  subject  that  had  evidently 
no  relation  to  the  sights  and  sounds  through  which  they  were 
pushing  their  way  along  the  Por’  Santa  Maria.  Nevertheless, 
as  they  discussed,  smiled,  and  gesticulated,  they  both,  from 
time  to  time,  cast  quick  glances  around  them,  and  at  the  turn¬ 
ing  towards  the  Lung’  Arno,  leading  to  the  Ponte  Rubaconte, 
Tito  had  become  aware,  in  one  of  these  rapid  surveys,  that 
there  was  some  one  not  far  off  him  by  whom  he  very  much 
desired  not  to  be  recognized  at  that  moment.  His  time  and 


208 


ROMOLA. 


thoughts  were  thoroughly  preoccupied,  for  he  was  looking  for¬ 
ward  to  a  unique  occasion  in  his  life  :  he  was  preparing  for 
his  betrothal,  which  was  to  take  place  on  the  evening  of  this 
very  day.  The  ceremony  had  been  resolved  upon  rather  sud¬ 
denly  ;  for  although  preparations  towards  the  marriage  had 
been  going  forward  for  some  time  —  chiefly  in  the  application 
of  Tito’s  florins  to  the  fitting-up  of  rooms  in  Bardo’s  dwelling, 
which,  the  library  excepted,  had  always  been  scantily  furnished 
—  it  had  been  intended  to  defer  both  the  betrothal  and  the  mar¬ 
riage  until  after  Easter,  wheii'Tito’s  year  of  probation,  insisted 
on  by  Bernardo  del  ISTero,  would  have  been  complete.  But 
when  an  express  proposition  had  come  that  Tito  should  follow 
the  Cardinal  Giovanni  to  Borne  to  help  Bernardo  Dovizi  with 
his  superior  knowledge  of  Greek  in  arranging  a  library,  and 
there  was  no  possibility  of  declining  what  lay  so  plainly  on  the 
road  to  adv^ancement,  he  had  become  urgent  in  his  entreaties 
that  the  betrothal  might  take  place  before  his  departure : 
there  would  be  the  less  delay  before  the  marriage  on  his 
return,  and  it  would  be  less  painful  to  part  if  he  and  Bomola 
were  outwardly  as  well  as  inwardly  pledged  to  each  other  — 
if  he  had  a  claim  which  defied  Messer  Bernardo  or  any  one 
else  to  nullify  it.  For  the  betrothal,  at  which  rings  were  ex¬ 
changed  and  mutual  contracts  were  signed,  made  more  than 
half  the  legality  of  marriage,  to  be  completed  on  a  separate 
occasion  by  the  nuptial  benediction.  Bomola’s  feeling  had 
met  Tito’s  in  this  wish,  and  the  consent  of  the  elders  had 
been  won. 

And  now  Tito  was  hastening,  amidst  arrangements  for  his 
departure  the  next  day,  to  snatch  a  morning  visit  to  Bomola, 
to  say  and  hear  any  last  words  that  were  needful  to  be  said 
before  their  meeting  for  the  betrothal  in  the  evening.  It'was 
not  a  time  when  any  recognition  could  be  pleasant  that  was 
at  all  likely  to  detain  him ;  still  less  a  recognition  by  Tessa. 
And  it  was  unmistakably  Tessa  whom  he  had  caught  sight  of 
moving  along,  wdth  a  timid  and  forlorn  look,  towards  that 
very  turn  of  the  Lung’  Arno  whieh  he  was  just  rounding. 
As  he  continued  his  talk  with  the  young  Dovizi,  he  had  an 
uncomfortable  undercurrent  of  consciousness  which  told  him 


THE  DAY  OF  THE  BETROTHAL. 


209 


that  Tessa  had  seen  him  and  would  certainly  follow  him ; 
there  was  no  escaping  her  along  this  direct  road  by  the  Arno, 
and  over  the  Ponte  Eubaconte.  But  she  would  not  dare  to 
speak  to  him  or  approach  him  while  he  was  not  alone,  and  he 
would  continue  to  keep  Dovizi  with  him  till  they  reached  Bar 
do’s  door.  He  quickened  his  pace,  and  took  up  new  thread? 
of  talk ;  but  all  the  while  the  sense  that  Tessa  was  behind 
him,  though  he  had  no  physical  evidence  of  the  fact,  grew 
stronger  and  stronger;  it  was  very  irritating — perhaps  all  the 
more  so  because  a  certain  tenderness  and  pity  for  the  poor  lit¬ 
tle  thing  made  the  determination  to  escape  without  any  visible 
notice  of  her,  a  not  altogether  agreeable  resource.  Yet  Tito 
persevered  and  carried  his  companion  to  the  door,  cleverly 
managing  his  “  addio  ”  without  turning  his  face  in  a  direction 
where  it  was  possible  for  him  to  see  an  importunate  pair  of 
blue  eyes  :  and  as  he  went  up  the  stone  steps,  he  tried  to  get 
rid  of  unpleasant  thoughts  by  saying  to  himself  that  after  all 
Tessa  might  not  have  seen  him,  or,  if  she  had,  might  not  have 
followed  him. 

But  —  perhaps  because  that  possibility  could  not  be  relied 
on  strongly  —  when  the  visit  was  over,  he  came  out  of  the 
doorway  with  a  quick  step  and  an  air  of  unconsciousness  as  to 
anything  that  might  be  on  his  right  hand  or  his  left.  Our 
eyes  are  so  constructed,  however,  that  they  take  in  a  wide  angle 
without  asking  any  leave  of  our  will ;  and  Tito  knew  that 
there  was  a  little  figure  in  a  white  hood  standing  near  the 
doorway  —  knew  it  quite  well,  before  he  felt  a  hand  laid  on 
his  arm.  It  was  a  real  grasp,  and  not  a  light,  timid  touch ; 
for  poor  Tessa,  seeing  his  rapid  step,  had  started  forward  with 
a  desperate  effort.  But  when  he  stopped  and  turned  towards 
her,  her  face  wore  a  frightened  look,  as  if  she  dreaded  the 
effect  of  her  boldness. 

‘‘  Tessa !  ”  said  Tito,  with  more  sharpness  in  his  voice  than 
she  had  ever  heard  in  it  before.  Why  are  you  here?  You 
must  not  follow  me  —  you  must  not  stand  about  door-places 
waiting  for  me.” 

Her  blue  eyes  widened  with  tears,  and  she  said  nothing. 
Tito  was  afraid  of  something  worse  than  ridicule,  if  he  were 

VOL.  V.  14 


210 


ROMOLA. 


seen  in  the  Via  de’  Bardi  with  a  girlish  contadina  looking 
pathetically  at  him.  It  was  a  street  of  high  silent-looking 
dwellings,  not  of  traffic ;  but  Bernardo  del  Nero,  or  some  one 
almost  as  dangerous,  might  come  up  at  any  moment.  Even  if 
it  had  not  been  the  day  of  his  betrothal,  the  incident  would 
have  been  awkward  and  annoying.  Yet  it  would  be  brutal  — 
it  was  impossible  —  to  drive  Tessa  away  with  harsh  words. 
That  accursed  folly  of  his  with  the  cerretano  —  that  it  should 
have  lain  buried  in  a  quiet  way  for  months,  and  now  start  up 
before  him  as  this  unseasonable  crop  of  vexation  !  He  could 
not  speak  harshly,  but  he  spoke  hurriedly. 

Tessa,  I  cannot  —  must  not  talk  to  you  here.  I  will  go 
on  to  the  bridge  and  wait  for  you  there.  Follow  me  slowly.” 

He  turned  and  walked  fast  to  the  Ponte  Rubaconte,  and 
there  leaned  against  the  wall  of  one  of  the  quaint  little  houses 
that  rise  at  even  distances  on  the  bridge,  looking  towards  the 
way  by  which  Tessa  would  come.  It  would  have  softened  a 
much  harder  heart  than  Tito’s  to  see  the  little  thing  advancing 
with  her  round  face  much  paled  and  saddened  since  he  had 
parted  from  it  at  the  door  of  the  “  Nunziata.”  Happily  it  was 
the  least  frequented  of  the  bridges,  and  there  were  scarcely 
any  passengers  on  it  at  this  moment.  He  lost  no  time  in 
speaking  as  soon  as  she  came  near  him. 

“  Now,  Tessa,  I  have  very  little  time.  You  must  not  cry. 
Why  did  you  follow  me  this  morning  ?  You  must  not  do  so 
again.” 

“  I  thought,”  said  Tessa,  speaking  in  a  whisper,  and  strug¬ 
gling  against  a  sob  that  ivould  rise  immediately  at  this  new 
voice  of  Tito’s  —  “I  thought  you  would  n’t  be  so  long  before 
you  came  to  take  care  of  me  again.  And  the  patrigno  beats 
me,  and  I  can’t  bear  it  any  longer.  And  always  when  I  come 
for  a-  holiday  I  walk  about  to  find  you,  and  I  can’t.  Oh,  please 
don’t  send  me  away  from  you  again !  It  has  been  so  long, 
and  I  cry  so  now,  because  you  never  come  to  me.  I  can’t  help 
it,  for  the  days  are  so  long,  and  I  don’t  mind  about  the  goats 
and  kids,  or  anything  —  and  I  can’t  —  ” 

The  sobs  came  fast  now,  and  the  great  tears.  Tito  felt  that 
he  could  not  do  otherwise  than  comfort  her.  Send  her  awaj 


THE  DAY  OF  THE  BETROTHAL. 


211 


—  yes ;  that  he  must  do,  at  once.  But  it  was  all  the  more 
impossible  to  tell  her  anything  that  would  leave  her  in  a  state 
of  hopeless  grief.  He  saw  new  trouble  in  the  background, 
but  the  difficulty  of  the  moment  was  too  pressing  for  him  to 
weigh  distant  consequences. 

Tessa,  my  little  one,”  he  said,  in  his  old  caressing  tones, 
^^you  must  not  cry.  Bear  with  the  cross  patrigno  a  little 
longer.  I  will  come  back  to  you.  But  I ’m  going  now  to 
Rome  —  a  long,  long  way  off.  I  shall  come  back  in  a  few 
weeks,  and  then  I  promise  you  to  come  and  see  you.  Promise 
me  to  be  good  and  wait  for  me.” 

It  was  the  well-remembered  voice  again,  and  the  mere  sound 
was  half  enough  to  soothe  Tessa.  She  looked  up  at  him  with 
trusting  eyes,  that  still  glittered  with  tears,  sobbing  all  the 
while,  in  spite  of  her  utmost  efforts  to  obey  him.  Again  he 
said,  in  a  gentle  voice  — 

Promise  me,  my  Tessa.” 

Yes,”  she  whispered.  But  you  won’t  be  long  ?  ” 

‘‘No,  not  long.  But  I  must  go  now.  And  remember  what 
L  told  you,  Tessa.  Nobod}"  must  know  that  you  ever  see  me, 
else  you  will  lose  me  forever.  And  now,  when  I  have  left  you, 
go  straight  home,  and  never  follow  me  again.  Wait  till  I 
come  to  you.  Good-by,  my  little  Tessa  :  I  will  come.” 

There  was  no  help  for  it ;  he  must  turn  and  leave  her  with¬ 
out  looking  behind  him  to  see  how  she  bore  it,  for  he  had  no 
time  to  spare.  When  he  did  look  round  he  was  in  the  Via 
de’  Benci,  where  there  was  no  seeing  what  was  happening  on 
the  bridge  ;  but  Tessa  was  too  trusting  and  obedient  not  to  do 
just  what  he  had  told  her. 

Yes,  the  difficulty  was  at  an  end  for  that  day  ;  yet  this 
return  of  Tessa  to  him,  at  a  moment  when  it  was  impossible 
for  him  to  put  an  end  to  all  difficulty  with  her  by  undeceiving 
her,  was  an  unpleasant  incident  to  carry  in  his  memory.  But 
Tito’s  mind  was  just  now  thoroughly  penetrated  with  a  hope¬ 
ful  first  love,  associated  with  all  happy  prospects  flattering  to 
his  ambition ;  and  that  future  necessity  of  grieving  Tessa 
could  be  scarcely  more  to  him  than  the  far-off  cry  of  some  lit¬ 
tle  suffering  animal  buried  in  the  thicket,  to  a  merry  cavalcade 


212 


ROMOLA. 


in  the  sunny  plain.  When,  for  the  second  time  that  day,  Titd 
was  hastening  across  the  Ponte  Rubaconte,  the  thought  of 
Tessa  caused  no  perceptible  diminution  of  his  happiness.  He 
was  well  muffled  in  his  mantle,  less,  perhaps,  to  protect  him 
from  the  cold  than  from  the  additional  notice  that  would  have 
been  drawn  upon  him  by  his  dainty  apparel.  He  leaped  up 
the  stone  steps  by  two  at  a  time,  and  said  hurriedly  to  Maso,, 
who  met  him  — 

“  Where  is  the  damigella  ?  ” 

‘‘  In  the  library  ;  she  is  quite  ready,  and  Monna  Brigida  and 
Messer  Bernardo  are  already  there  with  Ser  Braccio',  but  none 
of  the  rest  of  the  company.” 

“  Ask  her  to  give  me  a  few  minutes  alone  ;  I  will  await  her 
in  the  salotto.” 

Tito  entered  a  room  which  had  been  fitted  up  in  the  utmost 
contrast  with  the  half-pallid,  half-sombre  tints  of  the  library. 
The  walls  were  brightly  frescoed  with  “  caprices  ”  of  nymphs 
and  loves  sporting  under  the  blue  among  flowers  and  birds. 
The  only  furniture  besides  the  red  leather  seats  and  the  cen¬ 
tral  table  were  two  tall  white  vases,  and  a  young  faun  playing 
the  flute,  modelled  by  a  promising  youth  named  Michelangelo 
Buonarotti.  It  was  a  room  that  gave  a  sense  of  being  in  the 
sunny  open  air. 

Tito  kept  his  mantle  round  him,  and  looked  towards  the 
door.  It  was  not  long  before  Bomola  entered,  all  white  and 
gold,  more  than  ever  like  a  tall  lily.  Her  white  silk  garment 
was  bound  by  a  golden  girdle,  which  fell  with  large  tassels ; 
and  above  that  was  the  rippling  gold  of  her  hair,  surmounted 
by  the  white  mist  of  her  long  veil,  which  was  fastened  on  her 
bi'ow  by  a  band  of  pearls,  the  gift  of  Bernardo  del  Hero,  and 
was  now  parted  off  her  face  so  that  it  all  floated  backward. 

“  Regina  mia !  ”  said  Tito,  as  he  took  her  hand  and  kissed 
it,  still  keeping  his  mantle  round  him.  He  could  not  help 
going  backward  to  look  at  her  again,  while  she  stood  in  calm 
delight,  with  that  exquisite  self-consciousness  which  rises 
under  the  gaze  of  admiring  love. 

“Romola,  will  you  show  me  the  next  room  now?”  said 
Tito,  checking  himself  with  the  remembrance  that  the  time 


THE  DAY  OF  THE  BETROTHAL. 


213 


might  be  short.  ^‘You  said  I  should  see  it  when  you  had 
arranged  everything.” 

Without  speaking,  she  led  the  way  into  a  long  narrow  room, 
painted  brightly  like  the  other,  but  only  with  birds  and  flow¬ 
ers.  The  furniture  in  it  was  all  old ;  there  were  old  faded 
objects  for  feminine  use  or  ornament,  arranged  in  an  open 
cabinet  between  the  two  narrow  windows ;  above  the  cabinet 
was  the  portrait  of  Romola’s  mother ;  and  below  this,  on  the 
top  of  the  cabinet,  stood  the  crucifix  which  Romola  had 
brought  from  San  Marco. 

“  I  have  brought  something  under  my  mantle,”  said  Tito, 
smiling ;  and  throwing  off  the  large  loose  garment,  he  showed 
the  little  tabernacle  which  had  been  j)ainted  by  Piero  di  Cosi- 
mo.  The  painter  had  carried  out  Tito’s' intention  charmingly, 
and  so  far  had  atoned  for  his  long  delay.  “  Do  you  know  what 
this  is  for,  my  Romola  ?  ”  added  Tito,  taking  her  by  the  hand, 
and  leading  her  towards  the  cabinet.  ‘‘  It  is  a  little  shrine, 
which  is  to  hide  away  from  you  forever  that  remembrancer  of 
sadness.  You  have  done  with  sadness  now  ;  and  we  will  bury 
all  images  of  it  — bury  them  in  a  tomb  of  joy.  See  !” 

A  slight  quiver  passed  across  Eomola’s  face  as  Tito  took 
hold  of  the  crucifix.  But  she  had  no  wish  to  prevent  his  pur¬ 
pose  ;  on  the  contrary,  she  herself  wished  to  subdue  certain 
importunate  memories  and  questionings  which  still  flitted  like 
unexplained  shadows  across  her  happier  thought. 

He  opened  the  triptych  and  placed  the  crucifix  within  the 
central  space ;  then  closing  it  again,  taking  out  the  key,  and 
setting  the  little  tabernacle  in  the  spot  where  the  crucifix  had 
stood,  said  — 

‘^Kow,  Romola,  look  and  see  if  you  are  satisfied  with  the 
portraits  old  Piero  has  made  of  us.  Is  it  not  a  dainty  device  ? 
and  the  credit  of  choosing  it  is  mine.” 

“  Ah,  it  is  you  —  it  is  perfect !  ”  said  Komola,  looking  with 
moist  joyful  eyes  at  the  miniature  Bacchus,  with  his  purple 
clusters.  “  And  I  am  Ariadne,  and  you  are  crowning  me  1 
Yes,  it  is  true,  Tito;  you  have  crowned  my  poor  life.” 

They  held  each  other’s  hands  while  she  spoke,  and  both 
looked  at  their  imaged  selves.  But  the  reality  was  far  more 


214 


ROMOLA. 


beautiful ;  she  all  lily-white  and  golden,  and  he  with  his  dark 
glowing  beauty  above  the  purple  red-bordered  tunic. 

“  And  it  was  our  good  strange  Piero  who  painted  it  ?  ”  said 
Romola.  “  Did  you  put  it  into  his  head  to  paint  me  as  An¬ 
tigone,  that  he  might  have  my  likeness  for  this  ?  ” 

“  No,  it  was  he  who  made  my  getting  leave  for  him  to  paint 
you  and  your  father  a  condition  of  his  doing  this  for  me,” 

“  Ah !  I  see  now  what  it  was  you  gave  up  your  precious 
ring  for.  I  perceived  you  had  some  cunning  plan  to  give  me 
pleasure.” 

Tito  did  not  blench.  Eomola’s  little  illusions  about  himself 
had  long  ceased  to  cause  him  anything  but  satisfaction.  He 
only  smiled  and  said  — 

“  I  might  have  spared  my  ring ;  Piero  will  accept  no  money 
from  me ;  he  thinks  himself  paid  by  painting  you.  And  now, 
while  I  am  away,  you  will  look  every  day  at  those  pretty  sym¬ 
bols  of  our  life  together  —  the  ship  on  the  calm  sea,  and  the 
ivy  that  never  withers,  and  those  Loves  that  have  left  off 
wounding  us  and  shower  soft  petals  that  are  like  our  kisses ; 
and  the  leopards  and  tigers,  they  are  the  troubles  of  your  life 
that  are  all  quelled  now ;  and  the  strange  sea-monsters,  with 
their  merry  eyes  —  let  us  see  —  they  are  the  dull  passages  in 
the  heavy  books,  which  have  begun  to  be  amusing  since  we 
have  sat  by  each  other.” 

“  Tito  mio  !  ”  said  Romola,  in  a  half-laughing  voice  of  love ; 
“•  but  you  will  give  me  the  key  ?  ”  she  added,  holding  out  her 
hand  for  it. 

‘‘Not  at  all !  ”  said  Tito,  with  playful  decision,  opening  his 
scarcella  and  dropping  in  the  little  key.  “  I  shall  drown  it  in 
the  Arno.” 

“  But  if  I  ever  wanted  to  look  at  the  crucifix  again  ?  ” 

“  Ah !  for  that  very  reason  it  is  hidden  —  hidden  by  these 
images  of  youth  and  joy.” 

He  pressed  a  light  kiss  on  her  brow,  and  she  said  no  more, 
ready  to  submit,  like  all  strong  souls,  when  she  felt  no  valid 
reason  for  resistance. 

And  then  they  joined  the  waiting  company,  which  made  a 
dignified  little  procession  as  it  passed  along  the  Ponte  Ruba- 


THE  DAY  OF  THE  BETROTHAL. 


215 


conte  towards  Santa  Croce.  Slowly  it  passed,  for  Bardo,  un¬ 
accustomed  for  years  to  leave  his  own  house,  walked  with  a 
more  timid  step  than  usual ;  and  that  slow  pace  suited  well 
with  the  gouty  dignity  of  Messer  Bartolommeo  Scala,  who 
graced  the  occasion  by  his  presence,  along  with  his  daughter 
Alessandra.  It  was  customary  to  have  very  long  troops  of 
kindred  and  friends  at  the  sposalizio,  or  betrothal,  and  it  had 
even  been  found  necessary  in  time  past  to  limit  the  number 
by  law  to  no  more  than  fottr  hundred  —  two  hundred  on  each 
side ;  for  since  the  guests  were  all  feasted  after  this  initial 
ceremony,  as  well  as  after  the  nozze,  or  marriage,  the  very 
first  stage  of  matrimony  had  become  a  ruinous  expense,  as 
that  scholarly  Benedict,  Leonardo  Bruno,  complained  in  his 
own  case.  But  Bardo,  who  in  his  poverty  had  kept  himself 
proudly  free  from  any  appearance  of  claiming  the  advantages 
attached  to  a  powerful  family  name,  would  have  no  invitations 
given  on  the  strength  of  mere  friendship ;  and  the  modest 
procession  of  twenty  that  followed  the  s2)osi  were,  with  three 
or  four  exceptions,  friends  of  Bardo’s  and  Tito’s  selected  on 
personal  grounds. 

Bernardo  del  Nero  walked  as  a  vanguard  before  Bardo,  who 
was  led  on  the  right  by  Tito,  while  Romola  held  her  father’s 
other  hand.  Bardo  had  himself  been  married  at  Santa  Croce, 
and  had  insisted  on  Bomola’s  being  betrothed  and  married 
there,  rather  than  in  the  little  church  of  Santa  Lucia  close  by 
their  house,  because  he  had  a  complete  mental  vision  of  the 
grand  church  where  he  hoped  that  a  burial  might  be  granted 
him  among  the  Florentines  who  had  deserved  well.  Happily 
the  way  was  short  and  direct,  and  lay  aloof  from  the  loudest 
riot  of  the  Carnival,  if  onlj’’  they  could  return  before  any 
dances  or  shows  began  in  the  great  piazza  of  Santa  Croce. 
The  west  was  red  as  they  passed  the  bridge,  and  shed  a 
mellow  light  on  the  pretty  procession,  which  had  a  touch  of 
solemnity  in  the  presence  of  the  blind  father.  But  when  the 
ceremony  was  over,  and  Tito  and  Romola  came  out  on  to  the 
broad  steps  of  the  church,  with  the  golden  links  of  destiny  on 
their  fingers,  the  evening  had  deepened  into  struggling  star¬ 
light,  and  the  servants  had  their  torches  lit. 


216 


ROMOLA. 


While  they  came  out,  a  strange  dreary  chant,  as  of  a  Miserere^ 
met  their  ears,  and  they  saw  that  at  the  extreme  end  of  the 
piazza  there  seemed  to  be  a  stream  of  people  impelled  by 
something  approaching  from  the  'Borgo  de’  Greci. 

It  is  one  of  their  masked  processions,  I  suppose,”  said 
Tito,  who  was  now  alone  with  Bomola,  while  Bernardo  took 
charge  of  Bardo. 

And  as  he  spoke  there  came  slowly  into  view,  at  a  height 
far  above  the  heads  of  the  on-lookers,  a  huge  and  ghastly  image 
of  Winged  Time  with  his  scythe  and  hour-glass,  surrounded  by 
his  winged  children,  the  Hours.  He  was  mounted  on  a  high 
car  completely  covered  with  black,  and  the  bullocks  that  drew 
the  car  were  also  covered  with  black,  their  horns  alone  stand¬ 
ing  out  white  above  the  gloom ;  so  that  in  the  sombre  shadow 
of  the  houses  it  seemed  to  those  at  a  distance  as  if  Time  and 
his  children  were  apparitions  floating  through  the  air.  And 
behind  them  came  what  looked  like  a  troop  of  the  sheeted 
dead  gliding  above  blackness.  And  as  they  glided  slowly, 
they  chanted  in  a  wailing  strain. 

A  cold  horror  seized  on  Romola,  for  at  the  first  moment  it 
seemed  as  if  her  brother’s  vision,  which  could  never  be  effaced 
from  her  mind,  was  being  half  fulfilled.  She  clung  to  Tito, 
who,  divining  what  was  in  her  thoughts,  said  — 

“  What  dismal  fooling  sometimes  pleases  your  Florentines  ! 
Doubtless  this  is  an  invention  of  Piero  di  Cosimo,  who  loves 
such  grim  merriment.” 

“  Tito,  I  wish  it  had  not  happened.  It  will  deepen  the 
images  of  that  vision  which  I  would  fain  be  rid  of.” 

‘‘  Hay,  Romola,  you  will  look  only  at  the  images  of  our 
happiness  now.  I  have  locked  all  sadness  away  from  you.” 

“  But  it  is  still  there  —  it  is  only  hidden,”  said  Romola,  in  a 
low  tone,  hardly  conscious  that  she  spoke. 

“  See,  they  are  all  gone  now  !  ”  said  Tito.  “  You  will  for¬ 
get  this  ghastly  mummery  when  we  are  in  the  light,  and  can 
see  each  other’s  eyes.  My  Ariadne  must  never  look  backward 
now  —  only  forward  to  Easter,  when  she  will  triumph  with 
her  Care-dispeller.” 


BOOK  n. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

FLORENCE  EXPECTS  A  GUEST. 

It  was  the  17th  of  November,  1494  :  more  than  eightee?' 
months  since  Tito  and  Romola  had  been  finally  united  in 
the  joyous  Easter  time,  and  had  had  a  rainbowTinted  shower 
of  comfits  thrown  over  them,  after  the  ancient  Greek  fashion, 
in  token  that  the  heavens  would  shower  sweets  on  them 
through  all  their  double  life. 

Since  that  Easter  a  great  change  had  come  over  the  pros¬ 
pects  of  Florence  ;  and  as  in  the  tree  that  bears  a  myriad  of 
blossoms,  each  single  bud  with  its  fruit  is  dependent  on  the 
primary  circulation  of  the  sap,  so  the  fortunes  of  Tito  and 
Romola  were  dependent  on  certain  grand  political  and  social 
conditions  which  made  an  epoch  in  the  history  of  Italy. 

In  this  very  November,  little  more  than  a  week  ago,  the 
spirit  of  the  old  centuries  seemed  to  have  re-entered  the 
breasts  of  Florentines.  The  great  bell  in  the  palace  tower 
had  rung  out  the  hammer-sound  of  alarm,  and  the  people  had 
mustered  with  their  rusty  arms,  their  tools  and  impromptu 
cudgels,  to  drive  out  the  Medici.  The  gate  of  San  Gallo  had 
been  fairly  shut  on  the  arrogant,  exasperating  Piero,  galloping 
away  towards  Bologna  with  his  hired  horsemen  frightened 
behind  him,  and  shut  on  his  keener  young  brother,  the  cardinal, 
escaping  in  the  disguise  of  a  Franciscan  monk  :  a  price  had 
been  set  on  both  their  heads.  After  that,  there  had  been  some 
sacking  of  houses,  according  to  old  precedent  5  the  ignominious 
images,  painted  on  the  public  buildings,  of  the  men  who  had 
conspired  against  the  Medici  in  days  gone  by,  were  effaced  ; 
the  exiled  enemies  of  the  Medicj  were  invited  home.  The 


218 


ROMOLA. 


half-fledged  tyrants  were  fairly  out  of  their  splendid  nest  in 
the  Via  Larga,  and  the  Republic  had  recovered  the  use  of  its 
will  again. 

But  now,  a  week  later,  the  great  palace  in  the  Via  Larga 
had  been  prepared  for  the  reception  of  another  tenant ;  and  if 
drapery  roofing  the  streets  with  unwonted  color,  if  banners 
and  hangings  pouring  out  of  the  windows,  if  carpets  and  tapes¬ 
try  stretched  over  all  steps  and  pavement  on  winch  excep¬ 
tional  feet  might  tread,  were  an  unquestionable  proof  of  joy, 
Florence  was  very  joyful  in  the  expectation  of  its  new  guest. 
The  stream  of  color  flowed  from  the  palace  in  the  Via  Larga 
round  by  the  cathedral,  then  by  the  great  Piazza  della  Signo- 
ria,  and  across  the  Ponte  Vecchio  to  the  Porta  San  Frediano 
—  the  gate  that  looks  towards  Pisa.  There,  near  the  gate,  a 
platform  and  canopy  had  been  erected  for  the  Signoria ;  and 
Messer  Luca  Corsini,  doctor  of  law,  felt  his  heart  palpitating 
a  little  with  the  sense  that  he  had  a  Latin  oration  to  read  ; 
and  every  chief  elder  in  Florence  had  to  make  himself  ready, 
with  smooth  chin  and  well-lined  silk  lucco,  to  walk  in  j)roces- 
sion ,  and  the  well-born  youths  were  looking  at  their  rich 
new  tunics  after  the  French  mode  which  was  to  impress  the 
stranger  as  having  a  peculiar  grace  when  worn  by  Florentines ; 
and  a  large  body  of  the  clergy,  from  the  archbishop  in  his 
effulgence  to  the  train  of  monks,  black,  white,  and  gray,  were 
consulting  betimes  in  the  morning  how  they  should  marshal 
themselves,  with  their  burden  of  relics  and  sacred  banners 
and  consecrated  jewels,  that  their  movements  might  be  ad¬ 
justed  to  the  expected  arrival  of  the  illustrious  visitor,  at  three 
o’clock  in  the  afternoon. 

An  unexampled  visitor !  For  he  had  come  through  the 
passes  of  the  Alps  with  such  an  army  as  Italy  had  not  seen 
before .  with  thousands  of  terrible  Swiss,  well  used  to  fight 
for  love  and  hatred  as  well  as  for  hire  ;  with  a  host  of  gallant 
cavaliers  proud  of  a  name ;  with  an  unprecedented  infantry,  in 
which  every  man  in  a  hundred  carried  an  arquebus ;  nay,  with 
cannon  of  bronze,  shooting  not  stones  but  iron  balls,  drawn  not 
by  bullocks  but  by  horses,  and  capable  of  firing  a  second  time 
before  a  city  could  mend  the  breach  made  by  the  first  ball 


FLORENCE  EXPECTS.  A  GUEST. 


219 


Some  compared  the  new-comer  to  Charlemagne,  reputed  re- 
builder  of  Florence,  welcome  conqueror  of  degenerate  kings, 
regulator  and  benefactor  of  the  Church;  some  preferred  the 
comparison  to  Cyrus,  liberator  of  the  chosen  people,  restorer 
of  the  Temple.  For  he  had  come  across  the  Alps  with  the 
most  glorious  projects ;  he  was  to  march  through  Italy  amid 
the  jubilees  of  a  grateful  and  admiring  people ;  he  was  to  sat¬ 
isfy  all  conflicting  complaints  at  Rome ;  he  was  to  take  pos¬ 
session,  by  virtue  of  hereditary  right  and  a  little  fighting,  of 
the  kingdom  of  Naples  ;  and  from  that  convenient  starting- 
point  he  was  to  set  out  on  the  conquest  of  the  Turks,  who  were 
partly  to  be  cut  to  pieces  and  partly  converted  to  the  faith  of 
Christ.  It  was  a  scheme  that  seemed  to  befit  the  Most  Chris¬ 
tian  King,  head  of  a  nation  which,  thanks  to  the  devices  of  a 
subtle  Louis  the  Eleventh,  who  had  died  in  much  fright  as  to 
his  personal  prospects  ten  years  before,  had  become  the  strong¬ 
est  of  Christian  monarchies ;  and  this  antitype  of  Cyrus  and 
Charlemagne  was  no  other  than  the  son  of  that  subtle  Louis 
—  the  young  Charles  the  Eighth  of  France. 

Surely,  on  a  general  statement,  hardly  anything  could  seem 
more  grandiose,  or  fitter  to  revive  in  the  breasts  of  men  the 
memory  of  great  dispensations  by  which  new  strata  had  been 
laid  in  the  history  of  mankind.  And  there  was  a  very  widely 
spread  conviction  that  the  advent  of  the  French  king  and  his 
army  into  Italy  was  one  of  those  events  at  which  marble 
statues  might  well  be  believed  to  perspire,  phantasmal  fiery 
warriors  to  fight  in  the  air,  and  quadrupeds  to  bring  forth 
monstrous  births  —  that  it  did  not  belong  to  the  usual  order  of 
Providence,  but  was  in  a  peculiar  sense  the  work  of  God.  It 
was  a  conviction  that  rested  less  on  the  necessarily  momentous 
character  of  a  powerful  foreign  invasion  than  on  certain  moral 
emotions  to  which  the  aspect  of  the  times  gave  the  form  of 
presentiments :  emotions  which  had  found  a  very  remarkable 
utterance  in  the  voice  of  a  single  man. 

That  man  was  Fra  Girolamo  Savonarola,  Prior  of  the  Do¬ 
minican  convent  of  San  Marco  in  Florence.  On  a  September 
morning,  when  men’s  ears  were  ringing  with  the  news  that 
the  French  army  had  entered  Italy,  he  had  preached  in  the 


220 


ROMOLA. 


Cathedral  of  Florence  from  the  text,  “Behold  I,  even  I,  do 
bring  a  flood  of  waters  upon  the  earth.”  He  believed  it  was 
by  supreme  guidance  that  he  had  reached  just  so  far  in  his 
exposition  of  Genesis  the  previous  Lent ;  and  he  believed  the 
“  flood  of  water  ”  —  emblem  at  once  of  avenging  wrath  and 
purifying  mercy  —  to  be  the  divinely  indicated  symbol  of  the 
French  army.  His  audience,  some  of  whom  were  held  to  be 
among  the  choicest  spirits  of  the  age  —  the  most  cultivated 
men  in  the  most  cultivated  of  Italian  cities  —  believed  it  too, 
and  listened  with  shuddering  awe.  For  this  man  had  a  power 
rarely  paralleled,  of  impressing  his  beliefs  on  others,  and  of 
swaying  very  various  minds.  And  as  long  as  four  years  ago 
he  had  proclaimed  from  the  chief  pulpit  of  Florence  that  a 
scourge  was  about  to  descend  on  Italy,  and  that  by  this  scourge 
the  Church  was  to  be  purified.  Savonarola  appeared  to  believe, 
and  his  hearers  more  or  less  waveringly  believed,  that  he  had 
a  mission  like  that  of  the  Hebrew  prophets,  and  that  the  Flor¬ 
entines  among  whom  his  message  was  delivered  were  in  some 
sense  a  second  chosen  people.  The  idea  of  prophetic  gifts  was 
not  a  remote  one  in  that  age  :  seers  of  visions,  circumstantial 
heralds  of  things  to  be,  were  far  from  uncommon  either  outside 
or  inside  the  cloister ;  but  this  very  fact  made  Savonarola 
stand  out  the  more  conspicuously  as  a  grand  exception.  While 
in  others  the  gift  of  prophecy  was  very  much  like  a  farthing 
candle  illuminating  small  corners  of  human  destiny  with  pro¬ 
phetic  gossip,  in  Savonarola  it  was  like  a  mighty  beacon  shining 
far  out  for  the  warning  and  guidance  of  men.  And  to  some  of 
the  soberest  minds  the  supernatural  character  of  his  insight 
into  the  future  gathered  a  strong  attestation  from  the  peculiar 
conditions  of  the  age. 

At  the  close  of  1492,  the  year  in  which  Lorenzo  de’  Medici 
died  and  Tito  Melema  came  as  a  wanderer  to  Florence,  Italy 
was  enjoying  a  peace  and  prosperity  unthreatened  by  any 
near  and  definite  danger.  There  was  no  fear  of  famine,  for 
the  seasons  had  been  plenteous  in  corn,  and  wine,  and  oil; 
new  palaces  had  been  rising  in  all  fair  cities,  new  villas  on 
pleasant  slopes  and  summits ;  and  the  men  who  had  more 
than  their  share  of  these  good  things  were  in  no  fear  of  th<' 


FLORENCE  EXPECTS  A  GUEST. 


221 


larger  number  who  had  less.  For  the  citizens’  armor  was 
getting  rusty,  and  populations  seemed  to  have  become  tame, 
licking  the  hands  of  masters  who  paid  for  a  ready-made  army 
when  they  wanted  it,  as  they  paid  for  goods  of  Smyrna. 
Even  the  fear  of  the  Turk  had  ceased  to  be  active,  and  the 
Pope  found  it  more  immediately  profitable  to  accept  bribes 
from  him  for  a  little  prospective  poisoning  than  to  form  plans 
either  for  conquering  or  for  converting  him. 

Altogether  this  world,  with  its  partitioned  empire  and  its 
roomy  universal  Church,  seemed  to  be  a  handsome  establish¬ 
ment  for  the  few  who  were  lucky  or  wise  enough  to  reap  the 
advantages  of  human  folly :  a  world  in  which  lust  and  ob¬ 
scenity,  lying  and  treachery,  oppression  and  murder,  were 
pleasant,  useful,  and  when  properly  managed,  not  dangerous. 
And  as  a  sort  of  fringe  or  adornment  to  the  substantial 
delights  of  tyranny,  avarice,  and  lasciviousness,  there  was  the 
patronage  of  polite  learning  and  the  fine  arts,  so  that  flattery 
could  always  be  had  in  the  choicest  Latin  to  be  commanded 
at  that  time,  and  sublime  artists  were  at  hand  to  paint  the 
holy  and  the  unclean  with  impartial  skill.  The  Church,  it 
was  said,  had  never  been  so  disgraced  in  its  head,  had  never 
shown  so  few  signs  of  renovating,  vital  belief  in  its  lower 
members ;  nevertheless  it  was  much  more  prosperous  than  in 
some  past  days.  The  heavens  were  fair  and  smiling  above ; 
and  below  there  were  no  signs  of  earthquake. 

Yet  at  that  time,  as  we  have  seen,  there  was  a  man  in  Flor¬ 
ence  who  for  two  years  and  more  had  been  preaching  that  a 
scourge  was  at  hand ;  that  the  world  was  certainly  not  framed 
for  the  lasting  convenience  of  hypocrites,  libertines,  and  op¬ 
pressors.  From  the  midst  of  those  smiling  heavens  he  had 
seen  a  sword  hanging  —  the  sword  of  God’s  justice  —  which 
was  speedily  to  descend  with  purifying  punishment  on  the 
Church  and  the  world.  In  brilliant  Ferrara,  seventeen  years 
before,  the  contradiction  between  men’s  lives  and  their  pro¬ 
fessed  beliefs  had  pressed  upon  him  with  a  force  that  had 
been  enough  to  destroy  his  appetite  for  the  world,  and  at  the 
age  of  twenty-three  had  driven  him  into  the  cloister.  He  be¬ 
lieved  that  God  had  committed  to  the  Church  the  sacred  lamp 


222 


KOMOLA. 


of  truth  for  the  guidance  and  salvation  of  men,  and  ho  saw 
that  the  Church,  in  its  corruption,  had  become  a  sepulchre  to 
hide  the  lamp.  As  the  years  went  on  scandals  increased  and 
multiplied,  and  hypocrisy  seemed  to  have  given  place  to  impu¬ 
dence.  Had  the  world,  then,  ceased  to  have  a  righteous  Euler  ? 
Was  the  Church  finally  forsaken  ?  No,  assuredly ;  in  the 
Sacred  Book  there  was  a  record  of  the  past  in  which  might  be 
seen  as  in  a  glass  what  would  be  in  the  days  to  come,  and  the 
book  showed  that  when  the  wickedness  of  the  chosen  people, 
type  of  the  Christian  Church,  had  become  crying,  the  judg¬ 
ments  of  God  had  descended  on  them.  Nay,  reason  itself 
declared  that  vengeance  was  imminent,  for  what  else  would 
suffice  to  turn  men  from  their  obstinacy  in  evil  ?  And  unless 
the  Church  were  reclaimed,  how  could  the  promises  be  fulfilled, 
that  the  heathens  should  be  converted  and  the  whole  world 
become  subject  to  the  one  true  law  ?  He  had  seen  his  belief 
reflected  in  visions — a  mode  of  seeing  which  had  been  frequent 
with  him  from  his  youth  up. 

But  the  real  force  of  demonstration  for  Girolamo  Savonarola 
lay  in  his  own  burning  indignation  at  the  sight  of  wrong ;  in 
his  fervent  belief  in  an  Unseen  Justice  that  would  put  an  end 
to  the  wrong,  and  in  an  Unseen  Purity,  to  which  lying  and 
uncleanness  were  an  abomination.  To  his  ardent,  power-loving 
soul,  believing  in  great  ends,  and  longing  to  achieve  those  ends 
by  the  exertion  of  its  own  strong  will,  the  faith  in  a  supreme 
and  righteous  Euler  became  one  with  the  faith  in  a  speedy 
divine  interposition  that  would  punish  and  reclaim. 

Meanwhile,  under  that  splendid  masquerade  of  dignities 
sacred  and  secular  which  seemed  to  make  the  life  of  lucky 
Churchmen  and  princely  families  so  luxurious  and  amusing, 
there  were  certain  conditions  at  work  which  slowly  tended  to 
disturb  the  general  festivity.  Ludovico  Sforza  —  copious  in 
gallantry,  splendid  patron  of  an  incomparable  Leonardo  da 
Vinci — ^  holding  the  ducal  crown  of  Milan  in  his  grasp,  and 
wanting  to  put  it  on  his  own  head  rather  than  let  it  rest  on 
that  of  a  feeble  nephew  who  would  take  very  little  to  poison 
him,  was  much  afraid  of  the  Spanish-born  old  King  Ferdinand 
and  the  Crown  Prince  Alfonso  of  Naples,  who,  not  liking 


FLORENCE  EXPECTS  A  GUEST. 


228 


cruelty  and  treachery  which  were  useless  to  themselves,  ob¬ 
jected  to  the  poisoning  of  a  near  relative  for  the  advantage  of 
a  Lombard  usurper ;  the  royalties  of  Naples  again  were  afraid 
of  their  suzerain,  Pope  Alexander  Borgia ;  all  three  were 
anxiously  watching  Florence,  lest  with  its  midway  territory  it 
should  determine  the  game  by  underhand  backing ;  and  all 
four,  with  every  small  state  in  Italy,  were  afraid  of  Venice  — 
Venice  the  cautious,  the  stable,  and  the  strong,  that  wanted 
to  stretch  its  arms  not  only  along  both  sides  of  the  Adriatic 
but  across  to  the  ports  of  the  western  coast. 

Lorenzo  de’  Medici,  it  was  thought,  did  much  to  prevent 
the  fatal  outbreak  of  such  jealousies,  keeping  up  the  old  Flor¬ 
entine  alliance  with  Naples  and  the  Pope,  and  yet  persuading 
Milan  that  the  alliance  was  for  the  general  advantage.  But 
young  Piero  de’  Medici’s  rash  vanity  had  quickly  nullified  the 
effect  of  his  father’s  wary  policy,  and  Ludovico  Sforza,  roused 
to  suspicion  of  a  league  against  him,  thought  of  a  move  which 
would  checkmate  his  adversaries :  he  determined  to  invite  the 
French  king  to  march  into  Italy,  and,  as  heir  of  the  house  of 
Anjou,  take  possession  of  Naples.  Ambassadors  —  “  orators,” 
as  they  were  called  in  those  haranguing  times  —  went  and 
came ;  a  recusant  cardinal,  determined  not  to  acknowledge  a 
Pope  elected  by  bribery  (and  his  own  particular  enemy),  went 
and  came  also,  and  seconded  the  invitation  with  hot  rhetoric ; 
and  the  young  king  seemed  to  lend  a  willing  ear.  So  that  in 
1493  the  rumor  spread  and  became  louder  and  louder  that 
Charles  the  Eighth  of  France  was  about  to  cross  the  Alps  with 
a  mighty  army  ;  and  the  Italian  populations,  accustomed,  since 
Italy  had  ceased  to  be  the  heart  of  the  Roman  empire,  to  look 
for  an  arbitrator  from  afar,  began  vaguely  to  regard  his  coming 
as  a  means  of  avenging  their  wrongs  and  redressing  their 
grievances. 

And  in  that  rumor  Savonarola  had  heard  the  assurance  that 
his  prophecy  was  being  verified.  What  was  it  that  filled  the 
ears  of  the  prophets  of  old  but  the  distant  tread  of  foreign 
armies,  coming  to  do  the  work  of  justice  ?  He  no  longer 
looked  vaguely  to  the  horizon  for  the  coming  storm :  he  pointed 
to  the  rising  cloud.  The  French  army  was  that  new  deluge 


224 


ROMOLA. 


which  was  to  purify  the  earth  from  iniquity ;  the  French  king, 
Charles  VIII.,  was  the  instrument  elected  by  God,  as  Cyrus 
had  been  of  old,  and  all  men  who  desired  good  rather  than 
evil  were  to  rejoice  in  his  coming.  For  the  scourge  would 
fall  destructively  on  the  impenitent  alone.  Let  any  city  of 
Italy,  let  Florence  above  all  —  Florence  beloved  of  God,  since 
to  its  ear  the  warning  voice  had  been  specially  sent  —  repent 
and  turn  from  its  ways,  like  Nineveh  of  old,  and  the  storm- 
cloud  would  roll  over  it  and  leave  only  refreshing  raindrops. 

Fra  Girolamo’s  word  was  powerful ;  yet  now  that  the  new 
Cyrus  had  already  been  three  months  in  Italy,  and  was  not 
far  from  the  gates  of  Florence,  his  presence  was  expected  there 
with  mixed  feelings,  in  which  fear  and  distrust  certainly  pre¬ 
dominated.  At  present  it  was  not  understood  that  he  had 
redressed  any  grievances ;  and  the  Florentines  clearly  had 
nothing  to  thank  him  for.  He  held  their  strong  frontier 
fortresses,  which  Piero  de’  Medici  had  given  up  to  him  with¬ 
out  securing  any  honorable  terms  in  return ;  he  had  done 
nothing  to  quell  the  alarming  revolt  of  Pisa,  which  had  been 
encouraged  by  his  presence  to  throw  off  the  Florentine  yoke; 
and  “  orators,”  even  with  a  prophet  at  their  head,  could  win 
no  assurance  from  him,  except  that  he  would  settle  everything 
when  he  was  once  within  the  walls  of  Florence.  Still,  there 
was  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  the  exasperating  Piero 
de’  Medici  had  been  fairly  pelted  out  for  the  ignominious 
surrender  of  the  fortresses,  and  in  that  act  of  energy  the  spirit 
of  the  Republic  had  recovered  some  of  its  old  fire. 

The  preparations  for  the  equivocal  guest  were  not  entirely 
those  of  a  city  resigned  to  submission.  Behind  the  bright 
drapery  and  banners  symbolical  of  joy,  there  were  preparations 
of  another  sort  made  with  common  accord  by  government  and 
people.  Well  hidden  within  walls  there  were  hired  soldiers 
of  the  Republic,  hastily  called  in  from  the  surrounding  dis¬ 
tricts;  there  were  old  arms  duly  furbished,  and  sharp  tools 
and  heavy  cudgels  laid  carefully  at  hand,  to  be  snatched  up 
on  short  notice ;  there  were  excellent  boards  and  stakes  to 
form  barricades  upon  occasion,  and  a  good  supply  of  stones 
to  make  a  surprising  hail  from  the  upper  windows.  Above 


THE  PKISONERS. 


225 


all,  there  were  people  very  strongly  in  the  humor  for  fighting 
any  personage  who  might  be  supposed  to  have  designs  of  hec¬ 
toring  over  them,  they  having  lately  tasted  that  new  pleasure 
with  much  relish.  This  humor  was  not  diminished  by  the 
sight  of  occasional  parties  of  Frenchmen,  coming  beforehand 
to  choose  their  quarters,  with  a  hawk,  perhaps,  on  their  left 
wrist,  and,  metaphorically  speaking,  a  piece  of  chalk  in  their 
right  hand  to  mark  Italian  doors  withal ;  especially  as  credita¬ 
ble  historians  imply  that  many  sons  of  France  were  at  that 
time  characterized  by  something  approaching  to  a  swagger, 
which  must  have  whetted  the  Florentine  appetite  for  a  little 
stone-throwing. 

And  this  was  the  temper  of  Florence  on  the  morning  of  the 
17th  of  November,  1494. 


CHAPTEE  XXII. 

THE  PEIS  ONERS. 

The  sky  was  gray,  but  that  made  little  difference  in  the 
Piazza  del  Duomo,  which  was  covered  with  its  holiday  sky  of 
blue  drapery,  and  its  constellations  of  yellow  lilies  and  coats 
of  arms.  The  sheaves  of  banners  were  unfurled  at  the  angles 
of  the  baptistery,  but  there  was  no  carpet  yet  on  the  steps  of  the 
Duomo,  for  the  marble  was  being  trodden  by  numerous  feet 
that  were  not  at  all  exceptional.  It  was  the  hour  of  the 
Advent  sermons,  and  the  very  same  reasons  which  had  flushed 
the  streets  with  holiday  color  were  reasons  why  the  preaching 
in  the  Duomo  could  least  of  all  be  dispensed  with. 

But  not  all  the  feet  in  the  piazza  were  hastening  towards 
the  steps.  People  of  high  and  low  degree  were  moving  to  and 
fro  with  the  brisk  pace  of  men  who  had  errands  before  them  ; 
groups  of  talkers  were  thickly  scattered,  some  willing  to  be 
late  for  the  sermon,  and  others  content  not  to  hear  it  at  all. 

The  expression  on  the  faces  of  these  apparent  loungers  was 
not  that  of  men  who  are  enjoying  the  pleasant  laziness  of  an 

Jh 


VOL.  ■O’ 


ROMOLA. 


226 

op6niiig  holid-S^y.  S01116  wsrs  in  clos6  Rnd  68/g6r  discussion  ^ 
others  were  listening  with  keen  interest  to  a  single  spokesman, 
and  yet  from  time  to  time  turned  round  with  a  scanning  glance 
at  any  new  passer-by.  At  the  corner,  looking  towards  the 
Via  de’  Cerretani  —  just  where  the  artificial  rainbow  light  of 
the  piazza  ceased,  and  the  gray  morning  fell  on  the  sombre 
stone  houses  —  there  was  a  remarkable  cluster  of  the  working 
people,  most  of  them  bearing  on  their  dress  or  persons  tht 
signs  of  their  daily  labor,  and  almost  all  of  them  carrying 
some  weapon,  or  some  tool  which  might  serve  as  a  weapon 
upon  occasion.  Standing  in  the  gray  light  of  the  street,  with 
bare  brawny  arms  and  soiled  garments,  they  made  all  the 
more  striking  the  transition  from  the  brightness  of  the  piazza. 
They  were  listening  to  the  thin  notary,  Ser  Cioni,  who  had 
just  paused  on  his  way  to  the  Duomo.  His  biting  words  could 
get  only  a  contemptuous  reception  two  years  and  a  half  before 
in  the  Mercato,  but  now  he  spoke  with  the  more  complacent 
humor  of  a  man  whose  party  is  uppermost,  and  who  is  con¬ 
scious  of  some  influence  with  the  people. 

‘‘Never  talk  to  me,”  he  was  saying,  in  his  incisive  voice, 
“  never  talk  to  me  of  bloodthirsty  Swiss  or  fierce  French  in¬ 
fantry  :  they  might  as  well  be  in  the  narrow  passes  of  the 
mountains  as  in  our  streets  j  and  peasants  have  destioyed  the 
finest  armies  of  our  condottieri  in  time  past,  when  they  had 
once  got  them  between  steep  precipices.  I  tell  you,  Florentines 
need  be  afraid  of  no  army  in  their  own  streets.” 

“That ’s  true,  Ser  Cioni,”  said  a  man  whose  arms  and  hands 
were  discolored  by  crimson  dye,  which  looked  like  blood-stains, 
and  who  had  a  small  hatchet  stuck  in  his  belt ;  “  and  those 
French  cavaliers,  who  came  in  squaring  themselves  in  their 
smart  doublets  the  other  day,  saw  a  sample  of  the  dinner  we 
could  serve  up  for  them.  I  was  carrying  my  cloth  in  Ognis- 
santi,  when  I  saw  my  fine  Messeri  going  by,  looking  round  as 
if  they  thought  the  houses  of  the  Vespucci  and  the  Agli  a 
poor  pick  of  lodgings  for  them,  and  eying  us  Florentines,  like 
top-knotted  cocks  as  they  are,  as  if  they  pitied  us  because  we 
did  n’t  know  how  to  strut.  ‘  Yes,  my  fine  Galli,'  says  I,  ‘stick 
out  your  stomachs;  I’ve  got  a  meat-axe  in  my  belt  that  will 


THE  PRISONERS. 


227 


go  inside  you  all  the  easier;’  when  presently  the  old  cow 
lowed/  and  I  knew  something  had  happened  —  no  matter 
what.  So  I  threw  my  cloth  in  at  the  first  doorway,  and  took 
hold  of  my  meat-axe  and  ran  after  my  fine  cavaliers  towards 
the  Vigna  Nuova.  And,  ‘What  is  it,  Guccio  ?  ’  said  I,  when 
he  came  up  with  me.  ‘I  think  it’s  the  Medici  coming  back,’ 
said  Guccio.  Bembe  !  I  expected  so !  And  up  we  reared  a 
barricade,  and  the  Frenchmen  looked  behind  and  saw  thenn 
selves  in  a  trap ;  and  up  comes  a  good  swarm  of  our  Ciompi,'^ 
and  one  of  them  with  a  big  scythe  he  had  in  his  hand  mowed 
off  one  of  the  fine  cavalier’s  feathers  :  —  it ’s  true  !  And  the 
lasses  peppered  a  few  .stones  down  to  frighten  them.  How¬ 
ever,  Piero  de’  Medici  was  n’t  come  after  all ;  and  it  was  a  pity ; 
for  we ’d  have  left  him  neither  legs  nor  wings  to  go  away  with 
again.” 

“Well  spoken,  Oddo,”  said  a  young  butcher,  with  his  knife 
at  his  belt ;  “  and  it ’s  my  belief  Piero  will  bo  a  good  while 
before  he  wants  to  come  back,  for  he  looked  as  frightened  as  a 
hunted  chicken,  when  we  hustled  and  pelted  him  in  the  piazza. 
He ’s  a  coward,  else  he  might  have  made  a  better  stand  when 
he ’d  got  his  horsemen.  But  we  ’ll  swallow  no  Medici  any  more, 
whatever  else  the  French  king  wants  to  make  us  swallow.” 

“But  I  like  not  those  French  cannon  they  talk  of,”  said 
Goro,  none  the  less  fat  for  two  years’  additional  grievances. 
“  San  Giovanni  defend  us !  If  Messer  Domeneddio  means  so 
well  by  us  as  your  Frate  says  he  does,  Ser  Cioni,  why  should  n’t 
he  have  sent  the  French  another  way  to  Naples  ?  ” 

“Ay,  Goro,”  said  the  dyer ;  “that’s  a  question  worth  putting. 
Thou  art  not  such  a  pumpkin-head  as  I  took  thee  for.  Why, 
they  might  have  gone  to  Naples  by  Bologna,  eh,  Ser  Cioni  ? 
or  if  they ’d  gone  to  Arezzo  —  we  would  n’t  have  minded  their 
going  to  Arezzo.” 

“Fools!  It  will  be  for  the  good  and  glory  of  Florence,” 
Ser  Cioni  began.  But  he  was  interrupted  by  the  exclamation, 

^  "  La  vacca  muglia  ”  was  the  phrase  for  the  sounding  of  the  great  bell  in 
the  tower  of  the  Palazzo  Vecchio. 

^  The  poorer  artisans  connected  with  the  wool  trade  —  wool-beaters,  cardera 
washers,  &c. 


228 


ROMOLA. 


“  Look  there  !  "  which  burst  from  several  voices  at  once,  while 
the  faces  were  all  turned  to  a  party  who  were  advancing  along 
the  Via  de’  Cerretani. 

“  It ’s  Lorenzo  Tornabuoni,  and  one  of  the  French  noblemen 
who  are  in  his  house,”  said  Ser  Cioni,  in  some  contempt  at  this 
interruption.  “  He  pretends  to  look  well  satisfied  —  that  deep 
Tornabuoni  —  but  he ’s  a  Medicean  in  his  heart :  mind  that.” 

The  advancing  party  was  rather  a  brilliant  one,  for  there 
was  not  only  the  distinguished  presence  of  Lorenzo  Torna¬ 
buoni,  and  the  splendid  costume  of  the  Frenchman  with  his 
elaborately  displayed  white  linen  and  gorgeous  embroidery ; 
there  were  two  other  Florentines  of  high  birth  in  handsome 
dresses  donned  for  the  coming  procession,  and  on  the  left  hand 
of  the  Frenchman  was  a  figure  that  was  not  to  be  eclipsed  by 
any  amount  of  intention  or  brocade  —  a  figure  we  have  often 
seen  before.  He  wore  nothing  but  black,  for  he  was  in  mourn¬ 
ing  ;  but  the  black  was  presently  to  be  covered  by  a  red  man¬ 
tle,  for  he  too  was  to  walk  in  procession  as  Latin  Secretary  to 
the  Ten.  Tito  Melema  had  become  conspicuously  serviceable 
in  the  intercourse  with  the  French  guests,  from  his  familiarity 
with  Southern  Italy,  and  his  readiness  in  the  French  tongue, 
which  he  had  spoken  in  his  early  youth ;  and  he  had  paid  more 
than  one  visit  to  the  French  camp  at  Signa.  The  lustre  of 
good  fortune  was  upon  him  ;  he  was  smiling,  listening,  and 
explaining,  with  his  usual  graceful  unpretentious  ease,  and 
only  a  very  keen  eye  bent  on  studying  him  could  have  marked 
a  certain  amount  of  change  in  him  which  was  not  to  be  ac¬ 
counted  for  by  the  lapse  of  eighteen  months.^  It  was  that 
change  which  comes  from  the  final  departure  of  moral  youth¬ 
fulness  —  from  the  distinct  self-conscious  adoption  of  a  part 
in  life.  The  lines  of  the  face  were  as  soft  as  ever,  the  eyes  as 
pellucid;  but  something  was  gone  —  something  as  indefinable 

the  changes  in  the  morning  twilight. 

The  Frenchman  was  gathering  instructions  concerning  cere¬ 
monial  before  riding  back  to  Signa,  and  now  he  was  going  to 
have  a  final  survey  of  the  Piazza  del  Duomo,  where  the  royal 
procession  was  to  pause  for  religious  purposes.  The  distin¬ 
guished  party  attracted  the  notice  of  all  eyes  as  it  entered  the 


THE  PRISONERS. 


229 


piazza,  but  tbe  gaze  was  not  entirely  cordial  and  admiring  j 
there  were  remarks  not  altogether  allusive  and  mysterious 
to  the  Frenchman’s  hoof-shaped  shoes  —  delicate  flattery  of 
royal  superfluity  in  toes  ;  and  there  was  no  care  that  certain 
snarlings  at  ‘‘  Mediceans  ”  should  be  strictly  inaudible.  But 
Lorenzo  Tornabuoni  possessed  that  power  of  dissembling 
annoyance  which  is  demanded  in  a  man  who  courts  popularity, 
and  Tito,  besides  his  natural  disposition  to  overcome  ill-will  by 
good-humor,  had  the  unimpassioned  feeling  of  the  alien  towards 
names  and  details  that  move  the  deepest  passions  of  the 
native. 

Arrived  where  they  could  get  a  good  oblique  view  of  the 
Duomo,  the  party  paused.  The  festoons  and  devices  placed 
over  the  central  doorway  excited  some  demur,  and  Tornabuoni 
beckoned  to  Piero  di  Cosimo,  who,  as  was  usual  with  him  at 
this  hour,  was  lounging  in  front  of  Nello’s  shop.  There  was 
soon  an  animated  discussion,  and  it  became  highly  amusing 
from  the  Frenchman’s  astonishment  at  Piero’s  odd  pungency 
of  statement,  which  Tito  translated  literally.  Even  snarling 
on-lookers  became  curious,  and  their  faces  began  to  wear  the 
half-smiling,  half-humiliated  expression  of  people  who  are  not 
within  hearing  of  the  joke  which  is  producing  infectious 
laughter.  It  was  a  delightful  moment  for  Tito,  for  he  was 
the  only  one  of  the  party  who  could  have  made  so  amusing  an 
interpreter,  and  without  any  disposition  to  triumphant  self- 
gratulation  he  revelled  in  the  sense  that  he  was  an  object  of 
liking  —  he  basked  in  approving  glances.  The  rainbow  light 
fell  about  the  laughing  group,  and  the  grave  church-goers  had 
all  disappeared  within  the  walls.  It  seemed  as  if  the  piazza 
had  been  decorated  for  a  real  Florentine  holiday. 

Meanwhile  in  the  gray  light  of  the  unadorned  streets  there 
were  on-comers  who  made  no  show  of  linen  and  brocade,  and 
whose  humor  was  far  from  merry.  Here,  too,  the  French 
dress  and  hoofed  shoes  were  conspicuous,  but  they  were  being 
pressed  upon  by  a  larger  and  larger  number  of  non-admiring 
Florentines.  In  the  van  of  the  crowd  were  three  men  in 
scanty  clothing  ;  each  had  his  hands  bound  together  by  a  cord, 
and  a  rope  was  fastened  round  his  neck  and  body,  in  such  a 


230 


ROMOLA. 


way  that  he  who  held  the  extremity  of  the  rope  might  easily 
check  any  rebellious  movement  by  the  threat  of  throttling. 
The  men  who  held  the  ropes  were  French  soldiers,  and  by 
broken  Italian  phrases  and  strokes  from  the  knotted  end  of 
the  rope,  they  from  time  to  time  stimulated  their  prisoners  to 
beg.  Two  of  them  were  obedient,  and  to  every  Florentine  they 
had  encountered  had  held  out  their  bound  hands  and  said  in 
piteous  tones  — 

“  For  the  love  of  God  and  the  Holy  Madonna,  give  us  some¬ 
thing  towards  our  ransom  !  We  are  Tuscans  ;  we  were  made 
prisoners  in  Lunigiana.” 

But  the  third  man  remained  obstinately  silent  under  all  the 
strokes  from  the  knotted  cord.  He  was  very  different  in  as¬ 
pect  from  his  two  fellow-prisoners.  They  were  young  and 
hardy,  and,  in  the  scant  clothing  which  the  avarice  of  their 
captors  had  left  them,  looked  like  vulgar,  sturdy  mendicants. 
But  he  had  passed  the  boundary  of  old  age,  and  could  hardly 
be  less  than  four  or  five  and  sixty.  His  beard,  which  had 
grown  long  in  neglect,  and  the  hair  which  fell  thick  and 
straight  round  his  baldness,  were  nearly  white.  His  thickset 
figure  was  still  firm  and  upright,  though  emaciated,  and  seemed 
to  express  energy  in  spite  of  age  —  an  expression  that  was 
partly  carried  out  in  the  dark  eyes  and  strong  dark  eyebrows, 
which  had  a  strangely  isolated  intensity  of  color  in  the  midst 
of  his  yellow,  bloodless,  deep-wrinkled  face  with  its  lank  gray 
hairs.  And  yet  there  was  something  fitful  in  the  eyes  which 
contradicted  the  occasional  flash  of  energy  :  after  looking 
round  with  quick  fierceness  at  windows  and  faces,  they  fell 
again  with  a  lost  and  wandering  look.  But  his  lips  were 
motionless,  and  he  held  his  hands  resolutely  down.  He  would 
not  beg. 

This  sight  had  been  witnessed  by  the  Florentines  with  grow¬ 
ing  exasperation.  Many  standing  at  their  doors  or  passing 
quietly  along  had  at  once  given  money  —  some  in  half  auto¬ 
matic  response  to  an  appeal  in  the  name  of  God,  others  in  that 
unquestioning  awe  of  the  French  soldiery  which  had  been 
created  by  the  reports  of  their  cruel  warfare,  and  on  which 
the  French  themselves  counted  as  a  guarantee  of  immunity 


» 


THE  PRISONERS. 


231 


in  their  acts  of  insolence.  But  as  the  group  had  proceeded 
farther  into  the  heart  of  the  city,  that  compliance  had  gradually 
disappeared,  and  the  soldiers  found  themselves  escorted  by  a 
gathering  troop  of  men  and  boys,  who  kept  up  a  chorus  of 
exclamations  sufficiently  intelligible  to  foreign  ears  without 
any  interpreter.  The  soldiers  themselves  began  to  dislike 
their  position,  for,  with  a  strong  inclination  to  use  their  weap¬ 
ons,  they  were  checked  by  the  necessity  for  keeping  a  secure 
hold  on  their  prisoners,  and  they  were  now  hurrying  along  in 
the  hope  of  finding  shelter  in  a  hostelry. 

“  French  dogs  !  ’’  “  Bullock-feet !  ”  “  Snatch  their  pikes 

from  them  !  ”  “  Cut  the  cords  and  make  them  run  for  their 

prisoners.  They  ’ll  run  as  fast  as  geese  —  don’t  you  see 
they  ’re  web-footed  ?  ”  These  were  the  cries  which  the  sol¬ 
diers  vaguely  understood  to  be  jeers,  and  probably  threats. 
But  every  one  seemed  disposed  to  give  invitations  of  this 
spirited  kind  rather  than  to  act  upon  them. 

Santiddio  !  here ’s  a  sight !  ”  said  the  dyer,  as  soon  as  he 
had  divined  the  meaning  of  the  advancing  tumult,  “  and  the 
fools  do  nothing  but  hoot.  Come  along  !  ”  he  added,  snatch¬ 
ing  his  axe  from  his  belt,  and  running  to  join  the  crowd,  fol¬ 
lowed  by  the  butcher  and  all  the  rest  of  his  companions, 
except  Goro,  who  hastily  retreated  up  a  narrow  passage. 

The  sight  of  the  dyer,  running  forward  with  blood-red  arms 
and  axe  uplifted,  and  with  his  cluster  of  rough  companions 
behind  him,  had  a  stimulating  effect  on  the  crowd.  Not  that 
he  did  anything  else  than  pass  beyond  the  soldiers  and  thrust 
himself  well  among  his  fellow-citizens,  flourishing  his  axe; 
but  he  served  as  a  stirring  symbol  of  street-fighting,  like  the 
waving  of  a  well-known  gonfalon.  And  the  first  sign  that  fire 
was  ready  to  burst  out  was  something  as  rapid  as  a  little  leap¬ 
ing  tongue  of  flame :  it  was  an  act  of  the  conjurer’s  impish  lad 
Lollo,  who  was  dancing  and  jeering  in  front  of  the  ingenuous 
boys  that  made  the  majority  of  the  crowd.  Lollo  had  no  great 
compassion  for  the  prisoners,  but  being  conscious  of  an  excel¬ 
lent  knife  which  was  his  unfailing  companion,  it  had  seemed  to 
liiiu  from  the  first  that  to  jump  forward,  cut  a  rope,  and  leap 
back  again  before  the  soldier  who  held  it  could  use  his  weapon. 


232 


ROMOLA. 


would  be  an  amusing  and  dexterous  piece  of  mischief.  And 
now,  when  the  people  began  to  hoot  and  jostle  more  vigor¬ 
ously,  Lollo  felt  that  his  moment  was  come  —  he  was  close 
to  the  eldest  prisoner  :  in  an  instant  he  had  cut  the  cord. 

“  Run,  old  one !  ”  he  piped  in  the  prisoner’s  ear,  as  soon  as 
the  cord  was  in  two ;  and  himself  set  the  example  of  running 
as  if  he  were  helped  along  with  wings,  like  a  scared  fowl. 

The  prisoner’s  sensations  were  not  too  slow  for  him  to  seize 
the  opportunity :  the  idea  of  'escape  had  been  continually 
present  with  him,  and  he  had  gathered  fresh  hope  from  the 
temper  of  the  crowd.  He  ran  at  once  ;  but  his  speed  would 
hardly  have  sufficed  for  him  if  the  Florentines  had  not  instan¬ 
taneously  rushed  between  him  and  his  captor.  He  ran  on 
into  the  piazza,  but  he  quickly  heard  the  tramp  of  feet  behind 
him,  for  the  other  two  prisoners  had  been  released,  and  the 
soldiers  were  struggling  and  fighting  their  way  after  them,  in 
such  tardigrade  fashion  as  their  hoof-shaped  shoes  would  allow 
— impeded,  but  not  very  resolutely  attacked,  by  the  people. 
One  of  the  two  younger  prisoners  turned  up  the  Borgo  di  San 
Lorenzo,  and  thus  made  a  partial  diversion  of  the  hubbub ; 
but  the  main  struggle  was  still  towards  the  piazza,  where  all 
eyes  were  turned  on  it  with  alarmed  curiosity.  The  cause 
could  not  be  precisely  guessed,  for  the  French  dress  was 
screened  by  the  impeding  crowd. 

“An  escape  of  prisoners,”  said  Lorenzo  Tornabuoni,  as  he 
and  his  party  turned  round  just  against  the  steps  of  the 
Duomo,  and  saw  a  prisoner  rushing  by  them.  “  The  people 
are  not  content  with  having  emptied  the  Bargello  the  other 
day.  If  there  is  no  other  authority  in  sight  they  must  fall  on 
the  sbirri  and  secure  freedom  to  thieves.  Ah  !  there  is  a 
French  soldier  :  that  is  more  serious.” 

The  soldier  he  saw  was  struggling  along  on  the  north  side 
of  the  })iazza,  but  the  object  of  his  pursuit  had  taken  the  other 
direction.  That  object  was  the  eldest  prisoner,  who  had 
wheeled  round  the  baptistery  and  was  running  towards  the 
Duomo,  determined  to  take  refuge  in  that  sanctuary  rather 
than  trust  to  his  speed.  But  in  mounting  the  steps,  his  foot 
received  a  shock ;  he  was  precipitated  towards  the  group  of 


AFTER-THOUGHTS.  233 

signori,  whose  backs  were  turned  to  him,  and  was  only  able  to 
recover  his  balance  as  he  clutched  one  of  them  by  the  arm. 

It  was  lito  iVIelema  who  felt  that  clutch.  He  turned  his 
head,  and  saw  the  face  of  his  adoptive  father,  Baldassarre 
Cal  VO,  close  to  his  own. 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other,  silent  as  death :  Baldas¬ 
sarre,  with  dark  fierceness  and  a  tightening  grip  of  the  soiled 
worn  hands  on  the  velvet-clad  arm  ;  Tito,  with  cheeks  and 
lips  all  bloodless,  fascinated  by  terror.  It  seemed  a  long 
while  to  them  —  it  was  but  a  moment. 

The  first  sound  Tito  heard  was  the  short  langh  of  Piero  di 
Cosimo,  who  stood  close  by  him  and  was  the  only  person  that 
could  see  his  face. 

Ha,  ha !  I  know  what  a  ghost  should  be  now.” 

‘^This  is  another  escaped  prisoner,”  said  Lorenzo  Torna- 
buoni.  Who  is  he,  I  wonder  ?  ” 

Some  madman,  surely,^’’  said  Tito. 

He  hardly  knew  how  the  words  had  come  to  his  lips  :  there 
are  moments  when  our  passions  sj^eak  and  decide  for  us,  and 
we  seem  to  stand  by  and  wonder.  They  carry  in  them  an  in¬ 
spiration  of  crime,  that  in  one  instant  does  the  work  of  long 
premeditation. 

The  two  men  had  not  taken  their  eyes  off  each  other,  and  it 
seemed  to  Tito,  when  he  had  spoken,  that  some  magical  poison 
had  darted  from  Baldassarre’s  eyes,  and  that  he  felt  it  rushing 
through  his  veins.  But  the  next  instant  the  grasp  on  his  arm 
had  relaxed,  and  Baldassarre  had  disappeared  within  the 
church. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

I 

i 

AFTER-THOUGHTS. 

:  You  are  easily  frightened,  though,”  said  Piero,  with  another 

;  scornful  laugh.  My  portrait  is  not  as  good  as  the  original 
:  But  the  old  fellow  had  a  tiger  look :  I  must  go  into  the  Duomo 
^ud  see  him  again.” 


234 


EOMOLA. 


« It  is  not  pleasant  to  be  laid  bold  of  by  a  madman,  if  mad¬ 
man  he  be,”  said  Lorenzo  Tornabuoni,  in  polite  excuse  of  Tito, 
‘^but  perhaps  he  is  only  a  ruffian.  We  shall  hear.  I  think  we 
must  see  if  we  have  authority  enough  to  stop  this  disturbance 
between  our  people  and  your  countrymen,”  he  added,  address¬ 
ing  the  Frenchman. 

They  advanced  toward  the  crowd  with  their  swords  drawn, 
all  the  quiet  spectators  making  an  escort  for  them.  Tito  went 
too :  it  was  necessary  that  he  should  know  what  others  knew 
about  Baldassarre,  and  the  first  palsy  of  terror  was  being  suc¬ 
ceeded  by  the  rapid  devices  to  which  mortal  danger  will  stimu¬ 
late  the  timid. 

The  rabble  of  men  and  boys,  more  inclined  to  hoot  at  the 
soldier  and  torment  him  than  to  receive  or  inflict  any  serious 
wounds,  gave  way  at  the  approach  of  signori  with  drawn 
swords,  and  the  French  soldier  was  interrogated.  He  and  his 
companions  had  simply  brought  their  prisoners  into  the  city 
that  they  might  beg  money  for  their  ransom  :  two  of  the 
prisoners  were  Tuscan  soldiers  taken  in  Lunigiana ;  the  other, 
an  elderly  man,  was  with  a  party  of  Genoese,  with  whom  the 
Fi«‘nch  foragers  had  come  to  blows  near  Fivizzano.  He  might 
be  mad,  but  he  was  harmless.  The  soldier  knew  no  more„ 
being  unable  to  understand  a  word  the  old  man  said.  Tito 
heard  so  far,  but  he  was  deaf  to  everything  else  till  he  was 
specially  addressed.  It  was  Tornabuoni  who  spoke. 

“  Will  you  go  back  with  us,  Melenia  ?  Or,  since  Messere  is 
going  off  to  Signa  now,  will  you  wisely  follow  the  fashion  of 
the  times  and  go  to  hear  the  Frate,  who  will  be  like  the  torrent 
at  its  height  this  morning  ?  It ’s  what  we  must  all  do,  you 
know,  if  we  are  to  save  our  Medicean  skins.  I  should  go  if  I 
had  the  leisure.” 

Tito’s  face  had  recovered  its  color  now,  and  he  could  make 
an  effort  to  speak  with  gayety. 

‘‘  Of  course  I  am  among  the  admirers  of  the  inspired  orator,” 
he  said,  smilingly  ;  “  but,  unfortunately,  I  shall  be  occupied 
with  the  Segretario  till  the  time  of  the  procession.” 

**  I  am  going  into  the  Huomo  to  look  at  that  savage  old  man 
again,”  said  Piero. 


AFTER-THOUGHTS. 


235 


Then  have  the  charity  to  show  him  to  one  of  the  hospitals 
for  travellers,  Piero  mio/’  said  Tornabuoni.  “  The  monks  may 
find  out  whether  he  wants  putting  into  a  cage.” 

The  party  separated,  and  Tito  took  his  way  to  the  Palazzo 
Vecchio,  where  he  was  to  find  Bartolommeo  Seal  a.  It  was 
not  a  long  walk,  but,  for  Tito,  it  was  stretched  out  like  the 
minutes  of  our  morning  dreams :  the  short  spaces  of  street 
and  piazza  held  memories,  and  previsions,  and  torturing  fears, 
that  might  have  made  the  history  of  months.  He  felt  as  if  a 
serpent  had  begun  to  coil  round  his  limbs.  Baldassarre  living, 
and  in  Florence,  was  a  living  revenge,  which  would  no  more 
rest  than  a  winding  serpent  would  rest  until  it  had  crushed  its 
prey.  It  was  not  in  the  nature  of  that  man  to  let  an  injury 
pass  unavenged  :  his  love  and  his  hatred  were  of  that  pas¬ 
sionate  fervor  which  subjugates  all  the  rest  of  the  being,  and 
makes  a  man  sacrifice  himself  to  his  passion  as  if  it  were  a 
deity  to  be  worshipped  with  self-destruction.  Baldassarre  had 
relaxed  his  hold,  and  had  disappeared.  Tito  knew  well  how 
to  interpret  that :  it  meant  that  the  vengeance  was  to  be 
studied  that  it  might  be  sure.  If  he  had  not  uttered  those 
decisive  words  —  “  He  is  a  madman  ”  —  if  he  could  have  sum¬ 
moned  up  the  state  of  mind,  the  courage,  necessary  for  avow¬ 
ing  his  recognition  of  Baldassarre,  would  not  the  risk  have 
been  less  ?  He  might  have  declared  himself  to  have  had  what 
he  believed  to  be  positive  evidence  of  Baldassarre’s  death ;  and 
the  only  persons  who  could  ever  have  had  positive  knowledge 
to  contradict  him,  were  Fra  Luca,  who  was  dead,  and  the  crew 
of  the  companion  galley,  who  had  brought  him  the  news  of 
the  encounter  with  the  pirates.  The  chances  were  infinite 
against  Baldassarre’s  having  met  again  with  any  one  of  that 
crew,  and  Tito  thought  with  bitterness  that  a  timely,  welh 
devised  falsehood  might  have  saved  him  from  any  fatal  conse- 
I  quences.  But  to  have  told  that  falsehood  would  have  required 

1  perfect  self-command  in  the  moment  of  a  convulsive  shock: 

he  seemed  to  have  spoken  without  any  preconception :  the 
words  had  leaped  forth  like  a  sudden  birth  that  had  been 
begotten  and  nourished  in  the  darkness. 

Tito  was  experiencing  that  inexorable  law  of  human  souls, 


236 


ROMOLA. 


that  we  prepare  ourselves  for  sudden  deeds  by  tbe  reiterated 
choice  of  good  or  evil  which  gradually  determines  character. 

There  was  but  one  chance  for  him  now ;  the  chance  of  Bal 
dassarre’s  failure  in  finding  his  revenge.  And  — Tito  grasped 
at  a  thought  more  actively  cruel  than  any  he  had  ever  encour¬ 
aged  before  :  might  not  his  own  unpremeditated  words  have 
some  truth  in  them  ?  Enough  truth,  at  least,  to  bear  him  out 
in  his  denial  of  any  declaration  Baldassarre  might  make  about 
him  ?  The  old  man  looked  strange  and  wild  ;  with  his  eager 
heart  and  brain,  suffering  was  likely  enough  to  have  produced 
madness.  If  it  were  so,  the  vengeance  that  strove  to  inflict 
disgrace  might  be  baffled. 

But  there  was  another  form  of  vengeance  not  to  be  baffled 
by  ingenious  lying.  Baldassarre  belonged  to  a  race  to  whom 
the  thrust  of  the  dagger  seems  almost  as  natural  an  impulse 
as  the  outleap  of  the  tiger’s  talons.  Tito  shrank  with  shudder¬ 
ing  dread  from  disgrace ;  but  he  had  also  that  physical  dread 
which  is  inseparable  from  a  soft  pleasure-loving  nature,  and 
which  prevents  a  man  from  meeting  wounds  and  death  as  a 
welcome  relief  from  disgrace.  His  thoughts  flew  at  once  to 
some  hidden  defensive  armor  that  might  save  him  from  a 
vengeance  which  no  subtlety  could  parry. 

He  wondered  at  the  power  of  the  passionate  fear  that  pos¬ 
sessed  him.  It  was  as  if  he  had  been  smitten  with  a  blighting 
disease  that  had  suddenly  turned  the  joyous  sense  of  young 
life  into  pain. 

There  was  still  one  resource  open  to  Tito.  He  might  have 
turned  back,  sought  Baldassarre  again,  confessed  everything 
to  him  —  to  Eomola  —  to  all  the  world.  But  he  never  thought 
of  that.  The  repentance  which  cuts  off  all  moorings  to  evil, 
demands  something  more  than  selfish  fear.  He  had  no  sense 
that  there  was  strength  and  safety  in  truth ;  the  only  strength 
he  trusted  to  lay  in  his  ingenuity  and  his  dissimulation.  Now 
that  the  first  shock,  which  had  called  up  the  traitorous  signs 
of  fear,  was  well  past,  he  hoped  to  be  prepared  for  all  emer¬ 
gencies  by  cool  deceit  —  and  defensive  armor. 

It  was  a  characteristic  fact  in  Tito’s  experience  at  this  crisis, 
that  no  direct  measures  for  ridding  himself  of  Baldassarre  ever 


INSIDE  THE  DUOMO. 


231 


occurred  to  Mm.  All  other  possibilities  passed  through  his 
mind,  even  to  his  own  flight  from  Florence  ;  but  he  never 
thought  of  any  scheme  for  removing  his  enemy.  His  dread 
generated  no  active  malignity,  and  he  would  still  have  been 
glad  not  to  give  pain  to  any  mortal.  He  had  simply  chosen 
to  make  life  easy  to  himself  —  to  carry  his  human  lot,  if  pos¬ 
sible,  in  such  a  way  that  it  should  pinch  him  nowhere ;  and 
the  choice  had,  at  various  times,  landed  him  in  unexpected 
positions.  The  question  now  was,  not  whether  he  should 
divide  the  common  pressure  of  destiny  with  his  suffering 
fellow-men ;  it  was  whether  all  the  resources  of  lying  would 
save  him  from  being  crushed  by  the  consequences  of  that 
habitual  choice. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

INSIDE  THE  DUOMO. 

When  Baldassarre,  with  his  hands  bound  together,  and  the 
rope  round  his  neck  and  body,  pushed  his  way  behind  the 
curtain,  and  saw  the  interior  of  the  Duomo  before  him,  he 
gave  a  start  of  astonishment,  and  stood  still  against  the  door¬ 
way.  He  had  expected  to  see  a  vast  nave  empty  of  everything 
but  lifeless  emblems  —  side  altars  with  candles  unlit,  dim 
pictures,  pale  and  rigid  statues  —  with  perhaps  a  few  wor¬ 
shippers  in  the  distant  choir  following  a  monotonous  chant. 
That  was  the  ordinary  aspect  of  churches  to  a  man  who  never 
went  into  them  with  any  religious  purpose. 

And  he  saw,  instead,  a  vast  multitude  of  warm,  living  faces, 
upturned  in  breathless  silence  towards  the  pulpit,  at  the  angle 
between  the  nave  and  the  choir.  The  multitude  was  of  all 
ranks,  from  magistrates  and  dames  of  gentle  nurture  to  coarsely 
clad  artisans  and  country  people.  In  the  pulpit  was  a  Domini- 
c;an  friar,  with  strong  features  and  dark  hair,  preaching  with 
the  crucifix  in  his  hand. 

For  the  first  few  minutes  Baldassarre  noted  nothing  of  his 


238 


ROMOLA. 


preaching.  Silent  as  his  entrance  had  been,  some  eyes  neat 
the  doorway  had  been  turned  on  him  with  surprise  and  suspi¬ 
cion.  The  rope  indicated  plainly  enough  that  he  was  an  escaped 
prisoner,  but  in  that  case  the  church  was  a  sanctuary  which 
he  had  a  right  to  claim ;  his  advanced  years  and  look  of  wild 
misery  were  fitted  to  excite  pity  rather  than  alarm ;  and  as 
he  stood  motionless,  with  eyes  that  soon  wandered  absently 
from  the  wide  scene  before  him  to  the  pavement  at  his  feet, 
those  who  had  observed  his  entrance  presently  ceased  to  regard 
him,  and  became  absorbed  again  in  the  stronger  interest  of 
listening  to  the  sermon. 

Among  the  eyes  that  had  been  turned  towards  him  were 
Romola’s :  she  had  entered  late  through  one  of  the  side  doors 
and  was  so  placed  that  she  had  a  full  view  of  the  main  entrance. 
She  had  looked  long  and  attentively  at  Baldassarre,  for  gray 
hairs  made  a  peculiar  appeal  to  her,  and  the  stamp  of  some 
unwonted  suffering  in  the  face,  confirmed  by  the  cord  round 
his  neck,  stirred  in  her  those  sensibilities  towards  the  sorrows 
of  age,  which  her  whole  life  had  tended  to  develop.  She  fan¬ 
cied  that  his  eyes  had  met  hers  in  their  first  wandering  gaze ; 
but  Baldassarre  had  not,  in  reality,  noted  her  ;  he  had  only  had 
a  startled  consciousness  of  the  general  scene,  and  the  con¬ 
sciousness  was  a  mere  flash  that  made  no  perceptible  break 
in  the  fierce  tumult  of  emotion  which  the  encounter  with  Tito 
had  created.  Images  from  the  past  kept  urging  themselves 
upon  him  like  delirious  visions  strangely  blended  with  thirst 
and  anguish.  No  distinct  thought  for  the  future  could  shape 
itself  in  the  midst  of  that  fiery  passion :  the  nearest  approach 
to  such  thought  was  the  bitter  sense  of  enfeebled  powers,  and 
a  vague  determination  to  universal  distrust  and  suspicion. 
Suddenly  he  felt  himself  vibrating  to  loud  tones,  which  seemed 
like  the  thundering  echo  of  his  own  passion.  A  voice  that 
penetrated  his  very  marrow  with  its  accent  of  triumphant 
certitude  was  saying  —  “  The  day  of  vengeance  is  at  hand  !  ” 

Baldassarre  quivered  and  looked  up.  He  was  too  distant  to 
see  more  than  the  general  aspect  of  the  preacher  standing, 
with  his  right  arm  outstretched,  lifting  up  the  crucifix ;  but 
he  panted  for  the  threatening  voice  again  as  if  it  had  been  a 


INSIDE  THE  DUOMO. 


289 


promise  of  bliss.  There  was  a  pause  before  the  preacher 
spoke  again.  He  gradually  lowered  his  arm.  He  deposited 
the  crucifix  on  the  edge  of  the  pulpit,  and  crossed  his  arms 
over  his  breast,  looking  round  at  the  multitude  as  if  he  would 
meet  the  glance  of  every  individual  face. 

“  All  ye  in  Florence  are  my  witnesses,  for  I  spoke  not  in  a 
corner.  Ye  are  my  witnesses,  that  four  years  ago,  when  there 
were  yet  no  signs  of  war  and  tribulation,  I  preached  the  com¬ 
ing  of  the  scourge.  I  lifted  up  my  voice  as  a  trumpet  to  the 
prelates  and  princes  and  people  of  Italy  and  said.  The  cup  of 
your  iniquity  is  full.  Behold,  the  thunder  of  the  Lord  is 
gathering,  and  it  shall  fall  and  break  the  cup,  and  your  in¬ 
iquity,  which  seems  to  you  as  pleasant  wine,  shall  be  poured 
out  upon  you,  and  shall  be  as  molten  lead.  And  you,  0 
priests,  who  say,  Ha,  ha  !  there  is  no  Presence  in  the  sanc¬ 
tuary  —  the  Shechinah  is  nought  —  the  Mercy -seat  is  bare  : 
we  may  sin  behind  the  veil,  and  who  shall  punish  us  ?  To 
you,  I  said,  the  presence  of  God  shall  be  revealed  in  his 
temple  as  a  consuming  fire,  and  your  sacred  garments  shall 
become  a  winding-sheet  of  flame,  and  for  sweet  music  there 
shall  be  shrieks  and  hissing,  and  for  soft  couches  there  shall 
be  thorns,  and  for  the  breath  of  wantons  shall  come  the  pesti¬ 
lence.  Trust  not  in  your  gold  and  silver,  trust  not  in  your 
high  fortresses  ;  for,  though  the  walls  were  of  iron,  and  the 
fortresses  of  adamant,  the  Most  High  shall  put  terror  into 
your  hearts  and  weakness  into  your  councils,  so  that  you  shall 
be  confounded  and  flee  like  women.  He  shall  break  in  pieces 
mighty  men  without  number,  and  put  others  in  their  stead. 
For  God  will  no  longer  endure  the  pollution  of  his  sanctuary ; 
he  will  thoroughly  purge  his  Church. 

‘‘  And  forasmuch  as  it  is  written  that  God  will  do  nothing 
but  he  revealeth  it  to  his  servants  the  prophets,  he  has  chosen 
me,  his  unworthy  servant,  and  made  his  purpose  present  to 
my  soul  in  the  living  word  of  the  Scriptures,  and  in  the  deeds 
of  his  providence ;  and  by  the  ministry  of  angels  he  has  re¬ 
vealed  it  to  me  in  visions.  And  his  word  possesses  me  so  that 
I  am  but  as  the  branch  of  the  forest  when  the  wind  of  heaven 
penetrates  it,  and  it  is  not  in  me  to  keep  silence,  even  though 


240 


EOMOLA. 


I  may  be  a  derision  to  the  scorner.  And  for  four  years  I  have 
preached  in  obedience  to  the  Divine  will :  in  the  face  of  scoff¬ 
ing  I  have  preached  three  things,  which  the  Lord  has  delivered 
to  me  :  that  in  these  times  God  toill  regenerate  his  Church,  and 
that  before  the  regeneration  must  come  the  scourge  over  all  Italy, 
and  that  these  things  will  come  quickly. 

“  But  hypocrites  who  cloak  their  hatred  of  the  truth  with  a 
show  of  love  have  said  to  me,  ‘Come  now,  Frate,  leave  your 
prophesyings :  it  is  enough  to  teach  virtue.’  To  these  I  an¬ 
swer  :  ‘Yes,  you  say  in  your  hearts,  God  lives  afar  off,  and 
his  word  is  as  a  parchment  written  by  dead  men,  and  he  deals 
not  as  in  the  days  of  old,  rebuking  the  nations,  and  punishing 
the  oppressors,  and  smiting  the  unholy  priests  as  he  smote  the 
-sons  of  Eli.  But  I  cry  again  in  your  ears :  God  is  near  and 
not  afar  off;  his  judgments  change  not.  He  is  the  God  of 
armies ;  the  strong  men  who  go  up  to  battle  are  his  ministers, 
even  as  the  storm,  and  fire,  and  pestilence.  He  drives  them 
by  the  breath  of  his  angels,  and  they  come  upon  the  chosen 
land  which  has  forsaken  the  covenant.  And  thou,  O  Italy,  art 
the  chosen  land ;  has  not  God  placed  his  sanctuary  within 
thee,  and  thou  hast  polluted  it  ?  Behold,  the  ministers  of  his 
wrath  are  upon  thee  —  they  are  at  thy  very  doors  !  ’  ”  , 

Savonarola’s  voice  had  been  rising  in  impassioned  force  up 
to  this  point,  when  he  became  suddenly  silent,  let  his  hands 
fall  and  clasped  them  quietly  before  him.  His  silence,  in¬ 
stead  of  being  the  signal  for  small  movements  among  his 
audience,  seemed  to  be  as  strong  a  spell  to  them  as  his  voice. 
Through  the  vast  area  of  the  cathedral  men  and  women  sat 
with  faces  upturned,  like  breathing  statues,  till  the  voice  was 
heard  again  in  clear  low  tones. 

“Yet  there  is  a  pause  —  even  as  in  the  days  when  Jerusalem 
was  destroyed  there  was  a  pause  that  the  children  of  God 
might  flee  from  it.  There  is  a  stillness  before  the  storm  :  lo, 
there  is  blackness  above,  but  not  a  leaf  quakes  :  the  winds  are 
^ayed,  that  the  voice  of  God’s  warning  may  be  heard.  Hear 
it  now,  0  Florence,  chosen  city  in  the  chosen  land  !  Kepent 
and  forsake  evil :  do  justice :  love  mercy :  put  away  all  un- 
eleanness  from  among  you,  that  the  spirit  of  truth  and  holi- 


Savo^sarola. 


INSIDE  THE  DUOMO. 


241 


ness  may  fill  your  souls  and  breathe  through  all  your  streets 
and  habitations,  and  then  the  pestilence  shall  not  enter,  and 
the  sword  shall  pass  over  you  and  leave  you  unhurt. 

“For  the  sword  is  hanging  from  the  sky;  it  is  quivering;  it 
is  about  to  fall !  The  sword  of  God  upon  the  earth,  swift  and 
sudden  !  Did  I  not  tell  you,  years  ago,  that  I  had  beheld  the 
vision  and  heard  the  voice  ?  And  behold,  it  is  fulfilled !  Is 
there  not  a  king  with  his  army  at  your  gates  ?  Does  not  the 
earth  shake  with  the  tread  of  horses  and  the  wheels  of  swift 
cannon  ?  Is  there  not  a  fierce  multitude  that  can  lay  bare  the 
land  as  with  a  sharp  razor  ?  I  tell  you  the  French  king  with 
his  army  is  the  minister  of  God :  God  shall  guide  him  as  the 
hand  guides  a  sharp  sickle,  and  the  joints  of  the  wicked  shall 
melt  before  him,  and  they  shall  be  mown  down  as  stubble :  he 
that  fleeth  of  them  shall  not  flee  away,  and  he  that  escapeth 
of  them  shall  not  be  delivered.  And  the  tyrants  who  have 
made  to  themselves  a  throne  out  of  the  vices  of  the  multitude, 
and  the  unbelieving  priests  who  traffic  in  the  souls  of  men 
and  fill  the  very  sanctuary  with  fornication,  shall  be  hurled 
from  their  soft  couches  into  burning  hell ;  and  the  pagans  and 
they  who  sinned  under  the  old  covenant  shall  stand  aloof  and 
say  :  ‘  Lo,  these  men  have  brought  the  stench  of  a  new  wicked¬ 
ness  into  the  everlasting  fire.’ 

“  But  thou,  0  Florence,  take  the  offered  mercy.  See !  the 
Cross  is  held  out  to  you  :  come  and  be  healed.  Which  among 
the  nations  of  Italy  has  had  a  token  like  unto  yours  ?  The 
tyrant  is  driven  out  from  among  you :  the  men  who  held  a 
bribe  in  their  left  hand  and  a  rod  in  the  right  are  gone 
forth,  and  no  blood  has  been  spilled.  And  now  put  away 
every  other  abomination  from  among  you,  and  you  shall  be 
strong  in  the  strength  of  the  living  God.  Wash  yourselves 
from  the  black  pitch  of  your  vices,  which  have  made  you  even 
as  the  heathens  :  put  away  the  envy  and  hatred  that  have 
made  your  city  as  a  nest  of  wolves.  And  there  shall  no  harm 
happen  to  you  :  and  the  j)assage  of  armies  shall  be  to  you  as 
a  flight  of  birds,  and  rebellious  Pisa  shall  be  given  to  you 
again,  and  famine  and  pestilence  shall  be  far  from  your  gates, 
and  you  shall  be  as  a  beacon  among  the  nations.  But,  mark  ! 

VOL.  V.  16 


242 


ROMOLA. 


while  you  suffer  the  accursed  thing  to  lie  in  the  camp  you 
shall  be  afflicted  and  tormented,  even  though  a  remnant 
among  you  may  be  saved.” 

These  admonitions  and  promises  had  been  spoken  in  an 
incisive  tone  of  authority  ;  but  in  the  next  sentence  the 
preacher’s  voice  melted  into  a  strain  of  entreaty. 

“  Listen,  0  people,  over  whom  niy  heart  yearns,  as  the  heart 
of  a  mother  over  the  children  she  has  travailed  for !  God  is 
my  witness  that  but  for  your  sakes  I  would  willingly  live  as 
a  turtle  in  the  depths  of  the  forest,  singing  low  to  my  Beloved, 
who  is  mine  and  I  am  his.  For  you  I  toil,  for  you  I  languish, 
for  you  my  nights  are  spent  in  watching,  and  my  soul  melteth 
away  for  very  heaviness.  0  Lord,  thou  knowest  I  am  willing 
—  I  am  ready.  Take  me,  stretch  me  on  thy  cross  :  let  the 
wicked  who  delight  in  blood,  and  rob  the  poor,  and  defile  the 
temple  of  their  bodies,  and  harden  themselves  against  thy 
mercy  —  let  them  wag  their  heads  and  shoot  out  the  lip  at 
me :  let  the  thorns  press  upon  my  brow,  and  let  my  sweat  be 
anguish  —  I  desire  to  be  made  like  thee  in  thy  great  love. 
But  let  me  see  the  fruit  of  my  travail  —  let  this  people  be 
saved  !  Let  me  see  them  clothed  in  purity  :  let  me  hear  their 
voices  rise  in  concord  as  the  voices  of  the  angels :  let  them  see 
no  wisdom  but  in  thy  eternal  law,  no  beauty  but  in  holiness. 
Their  they  shall  lead  the  way  before  the  nations,  and  the 
people  from  the  four  winds  shall  follow  them,  and  be  gathered 
into  the  fold  of  the  blessed.  For  it  is  thy  will,  0  God,  that 
the  earth  shall  be  converted  unto  thy  law :  it  is  thy  will  that 
wickedness  shall  cease  and  love  shall  reign.  Come,  0  blessed 
promise;  and  behold,  I  am  willing  —  lay  me  on  the  altar:  let 
my  blood  flow  and  the  fire  consume  me  ;  but  let  my  witness 
be  remembered  among  men,  that  iniquity  shall  not  prosper  for¬ 
ever.”  ^ 

During  the  last  appeal,  Savonarola  had  stretched  out  his 
arms  and  lifted  up  his  eyes  to  heaven ;  his  strong  voice  had 
alternately  trembled  with  emotion  and  risen  again  in  renewed 
energy ;  but  the  passion  with  which  he  offered  himself  as  a 

1  The  sermon  here  given  is  not  a  translation,  but  a  free  representation  of 
Fra  Girolamo’s  preaching  in  its  more  impassioned  moments. 


INSIDE  THE  DUOMO. 


248 


victim  became  at  last  too  strong  to  allow  of  further  speech, 
and  he  ended  in  a  sob.  Every  changing  tone,  vibrating  through 
the  audience,  shook  them  into  answering  emotion.  There  were 
plenty  among  them  who  had  very  moderate  faith  in  the  Frate’s 
prophetic  mission,  and  who  in  their  cooler  moments  loved  him 
little ;  nevertheless,  they  too  were  carried  along  by  the  great 
wave  of  feeling  which  gathered  its  force  from  sympathies  that 
lay  deeper  than  all  theory.  A  loud  responding  sob  rose  at  once 
from  the  wide  multitude,  while  Savonarola  had  fallen  on  his 
knees  and  buried  his  face  in  his  mantle.  He  felt  in  that  mo¬ 
ment  the  rapture  and  glory  of  martyrdom  without  its  agony. 

In  that  great  sob  of  the  multitude  Baldassarre’s  had  mingled. 
Among  all  the  human  beings  present,  there  was  perhaps  not 
one  whose  frame  vibrated  more  strongly  than  his  to  the  tones 
and  words  of  the  preacher ;  but  it  had  vibrated  like  a  harp  of 
which  all  the  strings  had  been  wrenched  away  except  one. 
That  threat  of  a  fiery  inexorable  vengeance  —  of  a  future  into 
which  the  hated  sinner  might  be  pursued  and  held  by  the 
avenger  in  an  eternal  grapple,  had  come  to  him  like  the  prom¬ 
ise  of  an  unquenchable  fountain  to  unquenchable  thirst.  The 
doctrines  of  the  sages,  the  old  contempt  for  priestly  supersti¬ 
tions,  had  fallen  away  from  his  soul  like  a  forgotten  language : 
if  he  could  have  remembered  them,  what  answer  could  they 
have  given  to  his  great  need  like  the  answer  given  by  this 
voice  of  energetic  conviction  ?  The  thunder  of  denunciation 
fell  on  his  passion-wrought  nerves  with  all  the  force  of  self¬ 
evidence  .’  his  thought  never  went  beyond  it  into  questions  — 
he  was  possessed  by  it  as  the  war-horse  is  possessed  by  the 
clash  of  sounds.  No  word  that  was  not  a  threat  touched  his 
consciousness ;  he  had  no  fibre  to  be  thrilled  by  it.  But  the 
fierce  exultant  delight  to  which  he  was  moved  by  the  idea  of 
X)erpetual  vengeance  found  at  once  a  climax  and  a  relieving 
outburst  in  the  preacher’s  words  of  self-sacrifice.  To  Baldas- 
sarre  those  words  only  brought  the  vague  triumphant  sense 
that  he  too  was  devoting  himself  —  signing  with  his  own  blood 
the  deed  by  which  he  gave  himself  over  to  an  unending  fire, 
that  would  seem  but  coolness  to  his  burning  hatred. 

“  I.  rescued  him  —  T  cherished  him  —  if  I  might  clutch  his 


244 


ROMOLA. 


heart-strings  forever !  Come,  0  blessed  promise  !  Let  my 
blood  flow ;  let  the  Are  consume  me  !  ” 

The  one  cord  vibrated  to  its  utmost.  Baldassarre  clutched 
his  own  palms,  driving  his  long  nails  into  them,  and  burst  into 
a  sob  with  the  rest. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

OUTSIDE  THE  DUOMO. 

While  Baldassarre  was  possessed  by  the  voice  of  Savonarola, 
he  had  not  noticed  that  another  man  had  entered  through  the 
doorway  behind  him,  and  stood  not  far  off  observing  him.  It 
was  Piero  di  Cosimo,  who  took  no  heed  of  the  preaching, 
having  come  solely  to  look  at  the  escaped  prisoner.  During 
the  pause,  in  which  the  preacher  and  his  audience  had  given 
themselves  up  to  inarticulate  emotion,  the  new-comer  advanced 
and  touched  Baldassarre  on  the  arm.  He  looked  round  with 
the  tears  still  slowly  rolling  down  his  face,  but  with  a  vigorous 
sigh,  as  if  he  had  done  with  that  outburst.  The  painter  spoke 
to  him  in  a  low  tone  — 

“  Shall  I  cut  your  cords  for  you  ?  1  have  heard  how  you 

were  made  prisoner.” 

Baldassarre  did  not  reply  immediately ;  he  glanced  suspi¬ 
ciously  at  the  officious  stranger.  At  last  he  said,  ‘‘If  you 
will.” 

“  Better  come  outside,”  said  Piero. 

Baldassare  again  looked  at  him  suspiciously  ;  and  Piero, 
partly  guessing  his  thought,  smiled,  took  out  a  knife,  and  cut 
the  cords.  He  began  to  think  that  the  idea  of  the  prisoner’s 
madness  was  not  improbable,  there  was  something  so  peculiar 
in  the  expression  of  his  face.  “Well,”  he  thought,  “if  he 
does  any  mischief,  he  ’ll  soon  get  tied  up  again.  The  poor 
devil  shall  have  a  chance,  at  least.” 

“  You  are  afraid  of  me,”  he  said  again,  in  an  undertone  j 
“  you  don’t  want  to  tell  me  anything  about  yourself.” 


OUTSIDE  THE  DUOMO. 


246 


Baldassarre  was  folding  his  arras  in  enjoyment  of  the  long- 
absent  muscular  sensation.  He  answered  Piero  with  a  less 
suspicious  look  and  a  tone  which  had  some  quiet  decision 
in  it. 

‘‘Ho,  I  have  nothing  to  tell.” 

“  As  you  please,”  said  Piero,  “  but  perhaps  you  want  shelter^ 
and  may  not  know  how  hospitable  we  Plorentines  are  to  vis¬ 
itors  with  torn  doublets  and  empty  stomachs.  There ’s  an 
hospital  for  poor  travellers  outside  all  our  gates,  and,  if  you 
liked,  I  could  put  you  in  the  way  to  one.  There ’s  no  danger 
from  your  French  soldier.  He  has  been  sent  off.” 

Baldassarre  nodded,  and  turned  in  silent  acceptance  of  the 
offer,  and  he  and  Piero  left  the  church  together. 

“  You  would  n’t  like  to  sit  to  me  for  your  portrait,  should 
you  ?  ”  said  Piero,  as  they  went  along  the  Via  dell’  Oriuolo,  on 
the  way  to  the  gate  of  Santa  Croce.  “  I  am  a  painter :  I  would 
give  you  money  to  get  your  portrait.” 

The  suspicion  returned  into  Baldassarre’s  glance,  as  he 
looked  at  Piero,  and  said  decidedly,  “No.” 

“Ah!”  said  the  painter,  curtly.  “Well,  go  straight  on, 
and  you  ’ll  find  the  Porta  Santa  Croce,  and  outside  it  there ’s 
an  hospital  for  travellers.  So  you  ’ll  not  accept  any  service 
from  me  ?  ” 

“  I  give  you  thanks  for  what  you  have  done  already.  I 
need  no  more.” 

“  It  is  well,”  said  Piero,  with  a  shrug,  and  they  turned  away 
from  each  other. 

“  A  mysterious  old  tiger  !  ”  thought  the  artist,  “  well  worth 
painting.  Ugly — with  deep  lines  —  looking  as  if  the  plough 
and  the  harrow  had  gone  over  his  heart.  A  fine  contrast  to 
my  bland  and  smiling  Messer  Greco  —  my  Bacco  trionfante, 
who  has  married  the  fair  Antigone  in  contradiction  to  all  his¬ 
tory  and  fitness.  Aha  I  his  scholar’s  blood  curdled  uncom¬ 
fortably  at  the  old  fellow’s  clutch  !  ” 

When  Piero  re-entered  the  Piazza  del  Duomo  the  multitude 
who  had  been  listening  to  Fra  Girolamo  were  pouring  out 
from  all  the  doors,  and  the  haste  they  made  to  go  on  their 
several  ways  was  a  proof  how  inqjortant  they  held  the  preach- 


246 


ROMOLA. 


ing  which  had  detained  them  from  the  other  occupations  of 
the  day.  The  artist  leaned  against  an  angle  of  the  baptistery 
and  watched  the  departing  crowd,  delighting  in  the  variety  of 
the  garb  and  of  the  keen  characteristic  faces  —  faces  such  as 
Masaccio  had  painted  more  than  fifty  years  before :  such  as 
Domenico  Ghirlandajo  had  not  yet  quite  left  off  painting. 

This  morning  was  a  peculiar  occasion,  and  the  Frate’s  audi¬ 
ence,  always  multifarious,  had  represented  even  more  com¬ 
pletely  than  usual  the  various  classes  and  political  parties  of 
Florence.  There  were  men  of  high  birth,  accustomed  to  public 
charges  at  home  and  abroad,  who  had  become  newly  conspicu¬ 
ous  not  only  as  enemies  of  the  Medici  and  friends  of  popular 
government,  but  as  thorough  Piagnoni,  espousing  to  the  utmost 
the  doctrines  and  practical  teaching  of  the  Frate,  and  fre¬ 
quenting  San  Marco  as  the  seat  of  another  Samuel :  some  of 
them  men  of  authoritative  and  handsome  presence,  like  Fran¬ 
cesco  Valori,  and  perhaps  also  of  a  hot  and  arrogant  temper, 
very  much  gratified  by  an  immediate  divine  authority  for 
bringing  about  freedom  in  their  own  way  ;  others,  like  Soderini, 
with  less  of  the  ardent  Piagnone,  and  more  of  the  wise  poli¬ 
tician.  There  were  men,  also  of  family,  like  Piero  Capponi, 
simply  brave  undoctrinal  lovers  of  a  sober  republican  liberty, 
who  preferred  fighting  to  arguing,  and  had  no  particular  rea¬ 
sons  for  thinking  any  ideas  false  that  kept  out  the  Medici  and 
made  room  for  public  spirit.  At  their  elbows  were  doctors  of 
law  whose  studies  of  Accursius  and  his  brethren  had  not  so 
entirely  consumed  their  ardor  as  to  prevent  them  from  be¬ 
coming  enthusiastic  Piagnoni :  Messer  Luca  Corsini  himself, 
for  example,  who  on  a  memorable  occasion  yet  to  come  was  to 
raise  his  learned  arms  in  street  stone-throwing  for  the  cause 
of  religion,  freedom,  and  the  Frate.  And  among  the  dignities 
who  carried  their  black  lucco  or  furred  mantle  with  an  air  of 
habitual  authority,  there  was  an  abundant  sprinkling  of  men 
with  more  contemplative  and  sensitive  faces  :  scholars  inher¬ 
iting  such  high  names  as  Strozzi  and  Acciajoli,  who  were 
already  minded  to  take  the  cowl  and  join  the  community  of 
San  Marco  ;  artists,  wrought  to  a  new  and  higher  ambition  by 
the  teaching  of  Savonarola,  like  that  young  painter  who  had 


OUTSIDE  THE  DUOMO. 


247 


lately  surpassed  himself  in  his  fresco  of  the  divine  child  on 
the  wall  of  the  Frate’s  bare  cell  —  unconscious  yet  that  he 
would  one  day  himself  wear  the  tonsure  and  the  cowl,  and  be 
called  Fra  Bartolommeo.  There  was  the  mystic  poet  Girolamo 
Benevieni  hastening,  perhaps,  to  carry  tidings  of  the  beloved 
Frate’s  speedy  coming  to  his  friend  Pico  della  Mirandola,  who 
was  never  to  see  the  light  of  another  morning.  There  were 
well-born  women  attired  with  such  scrupulous  plainness  that 
their  more  refined  grace  was  the  chief  distinction  between 
them  and  their  less  aristocratic  sisters.  There  was  a  predomi¬ 
nant  proportion  of  the  genuine  popolani  or  middle  class,  be¬ 
longing  both  to  the  Major  and  Minor  Arts,  conscious  of  purses 
threatened  by  war-taxes.  And  more  striking  and  various, 
perhaps,  than  all  the  other  classes  of  the  Frate’s  disciples, 
there  was  the  long  stream  of  poorer  tradesmen  and  artisans, 
whose  faith  and  hope  in  his  Divine  message  varied  from  the 
rude  and  undiscriminating  trust  in  him  as  the  friend  of  the 
poor  and  the  enemy  of  the  luxurious  oppressive  rich,  to  that 
eager  tasting  of  all  the  subtleties  of  biblical  interpretation 
which  takes  a  peculiarly  strong  hold  on  the  sedentary  artisan, 
illuminating  the  long  dim  spaces  beyond  the  board  where  he 
stitches,  with  a  pale  flame  that  seems  to  him  the  light  of 
Divine  science. 

But  among  these  various  disciples  of  the  Frate  were  scattered 
many  who  were  not  in  the  least  his  disciples.  Some  were 
Mediceans  who  had  already,  from  motives  of  fear  and  policy, 
begun  to  show  the  presiding  spirit  of  the  popular  party  a 
feigned  deference.  Others  were  sincere  advocates  of  a  free 
government,  but  regarded  Savonarola  simply  as  an  ambitious 
monk  —  half  sagacious,  half  fanatical  —  who  had  made  himself 
a  powerful  instrument  with  the  people,  and  must  be  accepted 
as  an  important  social  fact.  There  were  even  some  of  his 
bitter  enemies  :  members  of  the  old  aristocratic  anti-Medicean 
party  —  determined  to  try  and  get  the  reins  once  more  tight 
in  the  hands  of  certain  chief  families;  or  else  licentious  young 
men,  who  detested  him  as  the  kill-joy  of  Florence.  For  the 
sermons  in  the  Duomo  had  already  become  political  incidents, 
attracting  the  ears  of  curiosity  and  malice,  as  well  as  of  faith. 


248 


ROMOLA. 


The  men  of  ideas,  like  young  Niccolo  Macchiavelli,  went  to 
observe  and  write  reports  to  friends  away  in  country  villas ; 
the  men  of  appetites,  like  Dolfo  Spini,  bent  on  hunting  down 
the  Frate,  as  a  public  nuisance  who  made  game  scarce,  went 
to  feed  their  hatred  and  lie  in  wait  for  grounds  of  accusation. 

Perhaps,  while  no  preacher  ever  had  a  more  massive  influence 
than  Savonarola,  no  preacher  ever  had  more  heterogeneous 
materials  to  work  upon.  And  one  secret  of  the  massive  in¬ 
fluence  lay  in  the  highly  mixed  character  of  his  preaching, 
Baldassarre,  wrought  into  an  ecstasy  of  self-martyring  revenge, 
was  only  an  extreme  case  among  the  partial  and  narrow  sym¬ 
pathies  of  that  audience.  In  Savonarola’s  preaching  there 
were  strains  that  appealed  to  the  very  finest  susceptibilities 
of  men’s  natures,  and  there  were  elements  that  gratified  low 
egoism,  tickled  gossiping  curiosity,  and  fascinated  timorous 
superstition.  His  need  of  personal  predominance,  his  laby¬ 
rinthine  allegorical  interpretations  of  the  Scriptures,  his  enig¬ 
matic  visions,  and  his  false  certitude  about  the  Divine 
intentions,  never  ceased,  in  his  own  large  soul,  to  be  ennobled 
by  that  fervid  piety,  that  passionate  sense  of  the  infinite,  that 
active  sympathy,  that  clear-sighted  demand  for  the  subjection 
of  selfish  interests  to  the  general  good,  which  he  had  in  com¬ 
mon  with  the  greatest  of  mankind.  But  for  the  mass  of  his 
audjence  all  the  pregnancy  of  his  preaching  lay  in  his  strong 
assertion  of  supernatural  claims,  in  his  denunciatory  visions, 
in  the  false  certitude  which  gave  his  sermons  the  interest  of 
a  political  bulletin  ;  and  having  once  held  that  audience  in  his 
mastery,  it  was  necessary  to  his  nature  —  it  was  necessary  for 
their  welfare  —  that  he  should  keep  the  mastery.  The  effect 
was  inevitable.  Ho  man  ever  struggled  to  retain  power  over 
a  mixed  multitude  without  suffering  vitiation  ;  his  standard 
must  be  their  lower  needs  and  not  his  own  best  insight. 

The  mysteries  of  human  character  have  seldom  been  pre¬ 
sented  in  a  way  more  fitted  to  check  the  judgments  of  facile 
knowingness  than  in  Girolamo  Savonarola ;  but  we  can  give 
him  a  reverence  that  needs  no  shutting  of  the  eyes  to  fact, 
if  we  regard  his  life  as  a  drama  in  which  there  were  great 
inward  modifications  accompanying  the  outward  changes. 


THE  GARMENT  OF  FEAR. 


249 


And  up  to  this  period,  when  his  more  direct  action  on  political 
affairs  had  only  just  begun,  it  is  probable  that  his  imperious 
need  of  ascendancy  had  burned  undiscernibly  in  the  strong 
flame  of  his  zeal  for  God  and  man. 

It  was  the  fashion  of  old,  when  an  ox  was  led  out  for  sacrifice 
to  Jupiter,  to  chalk  the  dark  spots,  and  give  the  offering  a 
false  show  of  unblemished  whiteness.  Let  us  fling  away  the 
chalk,  and  boldly  say,  —  the  victim  is  spotted,  but  it  is  not 
therefore  in  vain  that  his  mighty  heart  is  laid  on  the  altar  of 
men’s  highest  hopes. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

« 

THE  GARMENT  OF  FEAR. 

At  six  o’clock  that  evening  most  people  in  Florence  were 
glad  the  entrance  of  the  new  Charlemagne  was  fairly  over. 
Doubtless  when  the  roll  of  drums,  the  blast  of  trumpets,  and 
the  tramp  of  horses  along  the  Pisan  road  began  to  mingle  with 
the  pealing  of  the  excited  bells,  it  was  a  grand  moment  for 
those  who  were  stationed  on  turreted  roofs,  and  could  see  the 
long-winding  terrible  pomp  on  the  background  of  the  green 
hills  and  valley.  There  was  no  sunshine  to  light  up  the  splen¬ 
dor  of  banners,  and  spears,  and  plumes,  and  silken  surcoats, 
but  there  was  no  thick  cloud  of  dust  to  hide  it,  and  as  the 
picked  troops  advanced  into  close  view,  they  could  be  seen 
all  the  more  distinctly  for  the  absence  of  dancing  glitter. 
Tall  and  tough  Scotch  archers,  Swiss  halberdiers  fierce  and 
ponderous,  nimble  Gascons  ready  to  wheel  and  climb,  cav¬ 
alry  in  which  each  man  looked  like  a  knight-errant  with 
his  indomitable  spear  and  charger  —  it  was  satisfactory  to 
be  assured  that  they  would  injure  nobody  but  the  enemies 
of  God !  With  that  confidence  at  heart  it  was  a  less  dubious 
pleasure  to  look  at  the  array  of  strength  and  splendor  in 
nobles  and  knights,  and  youthful  pages  of  choice  lineage  — 
at  the  bossed  and  jewelled  sword-hilts,  at  the  satin  scarfs  em- 


250 


EOMOLA. 


broidered  with  strange  symbolical  devices  of  pious  or  gallant 
meaning,  at  the  gold  chains  and  jewelled  aigrettes,  at  the  gor¬ 
geous  horse-trappings  and  brocaded  mantles,  and  at  the  tran¬ 
scendent  canopy  carried  by  select  youths  above  the  head  of 
the  Most  Christian  King.  To  sum  ujd  with  an  old  diarist, 
whose  spelling  and  diction  halted  a  little  behind  the  wonders 
of  this  royal  visit,  —  “/m  gran  magnificenzaP 

But  for  the  Signoria,  who  had  been  waiting  on  their  plat¬ 
form  against  the  gates,  and  had  to  march  out  at  the  right 
moment,  with  their  orator  in  front  of  them,  to  meet  the  mighty 
guest,  the  grandeur  of  the  scene  had  been  somewhat  screened 
by  unpleasant  sensations.  If  Messer  Luca  Corsini  could  have 
had  a  brief  Latin  welcome  depending  from  his  mouth  in  legible 
characters,  it  would  have  been  less  confusing  when  the  rain 
came  on,  and  created  an  impatience  in  men  and  horses  that 
broke  off  the  delivery  of  his  well-studied  periods,  and  reduced 
the  representatives  of  the  scholarly  city  to  offer  a  make-shift 
welcome  in  impromptu  French.  But  that  sudden  confusion 
had  created  a  great  opportunity  for  Tito.  As  one  of  the  sec¬ 
retaries  he  was  among  the  officials  who  were  stationed  behind 
the  Signoria,  and  with  whom  these  highest  dignities  were  pro¬ 
miscuously  thrown  when  pressed  upon  by  the  horses. 

“  Somebody  step  forward  and  say  a  few  words  in  French,’’ 
said  Soderini.  But  no  one  of  high  importance  chose  to  risk 
a  second  failure.  You,  Francesco  Gaddi  —  you  can  speak.” 
But  Gaddi,  distrusting  his  own  promptness,  hung  back,  and 
pushing  Tito,  said,  ‘‘  You,  Melema.” 

Tito  stepped  forward  in  an  instant,  and,  with  the  air  of  pro¬ 
found  deference  that  came  as  naturally  to  him  as  walking,  said 
the  few  needful  words  in  the  name  of  the  Signoria ;  then  gave 
way  gracefully,  and  let  the  king  pass  on.  His  presence  of 
mind,  which  had  failed  him  in  the  terrible  crisis  of  the  morn¬ 
ing,  had  been  a  ready  instrument  this  time.  It  was  an  ex¬ 
cellent  livery  servant  that  never  forsook  him  when  danger 
was  not  visible.  But  when  he  was  complimented  on  his 
opportune  service,  he  laughed  it  off  as  a  thing  of  no  mo¬ 
ment,  and  to  those  who  had  not  witnessed  it,  let  Gaddi  have 
the  credit  of  the  improvised  welcome.  No  wonder  Tito  was 


THE  GARMENT  OF  FEAR.  251 

popular :  the  touchstone  by  which  men  try  us  is  most  often 
their  own  vanity. 

Other  things  besides  the  oratorical  welcome  had  turned  out 
rather  worse  than  had  been  expected.  If  everything  liad  hap' 
pened  according  to  ingejiious  preconceptions,  the  Florentine 
procession  of  clergy  and  laity  would  not  have  found  their  way 
choked  up  and  been  obliged  to  take  a  make-shift  course  through 
the  back  streets,  so  as  to  meet  the  king  at  the  cathedral  only. 
Also,  if  the  young  monarch  under  the  canojjy,  seated  on  his 
charger  with  his  lance  upon  his  thigh,  had  looked  more  like  a 
Charlemagne  and  less  like  a  hastily  modelled  grotesque,  the 
imagination  of  his  admirers  would  have  been  much  assisted. 
It  might  have  been  wished  that  the  scourge  of  Italian  wicked¬ 
ness  and  ‘‘Champion  of  the  honor  of  women”  had  had  a  less 
miserable  leg,  and  only  the  normal  sum  of  toes ;  that  his  mouth 
had  been  of  a  less  reptilian  width  of  slit,  his  nose  and  head  of 
a  less  exorbitant  outline.  But  the  thin  leg  rested  on  cloth  of 
gold  and  pearls,  and  the  face  was  only  an  interruption  of  a 
few  square  inches  in  the  midst  of  black  velvet  and  gold,  and 
the  blaze  of  rubies,  and  the  brilliant  tints  of  the  embroidered 
and  bepearled  canopy,  —  “fu  gran  magnijicenzay 

And  the  people  had  cried  Francia,  Francia  !  with  an  enthu¬ 
siasm  proportioned  to  the  splendor  of  the  canopy  which  they 
had  torn  to  pieces  as  their  spoil,  according  to  immemorial  cus¬ 
tom  ;  royal  lips  had  duly  kissed  the  altar  ;  and  after  all  mis¬ 
chances  the  royal  person  and  retinue  were  lodged  in  the  Palace 
of  the  Via  Larga,  the  rest  of  the  nobles  and  gentry  were  dis¬ 
persed  among  the  great  houses  of  Florence,  and  the  terrible 
soldiery  were  encamped  in  the  Prato  and  other  open  quarters. 
The  business  of  the  day  was  ended. 

But  the  streets  still  presented  a  surprising  aspect,  such  as 
Florentines  had  not  seen  before  under  the  iSToveraber  stars. 
Instead  of  a  gloom  unbroken  except  by  a  lamp  burning  feebly 
here  and  there  before  a  saintly  image  at  the  street  corners,  or 
by  a  stream  of  redder  light  from  an  open  doorway,  there  were 
lamps  suspended  at  the  windows  of  all  houses,  so  that  men 
could  walk  along  no  less  securely  and  commodiously  than  by 
day,  —  “fii  gran  niagnificenzaP 


252 


ROMOLA. 


Along  those  illuminated  streets  Tito  Melema  was  walking 
at  about  eight  o’clock  in  the  evening,  on  his  way  homeward. 
He  had  been  exerting  himself  throughout  the  day  under  the 
pressure  of  hidden  anxieties,  and  had  at  last  made  his  escape 
unnoticed  from  the  midst  of  after-supper  gayety.  Once  at 
leisure  thoroughly  to  face  and  consider  his  circumstances,  he 
hoped  that  he  could  so  adjust  himself  to  them  and  to  all  prob¬ 
abilities  as  to  get  rid  of  his  childish  fear.  If  he  had  only  not 
been  wanting  in  the  presence  of  mind  necessary  to  recognize 
Baldassarre  under  that  surprise  !  —  it  would  have  been  happier 
for  him  on  all  accounts  ;  for  he  still  winced  under  the  sense 
that  he  was  deliberately  inflicting  suffering  on  his  father :  he 
would  very  much  have  preferred  that  Baldassarre  should  be 
prosperous  and  happy.  But  he  had  left  himself  no  second 
path  now :  there  could  be  no  conflict  any  longer :  the  only 
thing  he  had  to  do  was  to  take  care  of  himself. 

While  these  thoughts  were  in  his  mind  he  was  advancing 
from  the  Piazza  di  Santa  Croce  along  the  Via  dei  Benci,  and 
as  he  neared  the  angle  turning  into  the  Borgo  Santa  Croce  his 
ear  was  struck  by  a  music  which  was  not  that  of  evening  rev¬ 
elry,  but  of  vigorous  labor  —  the  music  of  the  anvil.  Tito  gave 
a  slight  start  and  quickened  his  pace,  for  the  sounds  had  sug¬ 
gested  a  welcome  thought.  He  knew  that  they  came  from  the 
workshop  of  Niccolo  Caparra,  famous  resort  of  all  Florentines 
who  cared  for  curious  and  beautiful  iron-work. 

“  What  makes  the  giant  at  work  so  late  ?  ”  thought  Tito. 
“  But  so  much  the  better  for  me.  I  can  do  that  little  bit  of 
business  to-night  instead  of  to-morrow  morning.” 

Preoccupied  as  he  was,  he  could  not  help  pausing  a  moment 
in  admiration  as  he  came  in  front  of  the  workshop.  The  wide 
doorway,  standing  at  the  truncated  angle  of  a  great  block  or 
“isle”  of  houses,  was  surmounted  by  a  loggia  roofed  with 
fluted  tiles,  and  supported  by  stone  columns  with  roughly 
carved  capitals.  Against  the  red  light  framed  in  by  the  out¬ 
line  of  the  fluted  tiles  and  columns  stood  in  black  relief  the 
grand  figure  of  Niccolo,  with  his  huge  arms  in  rhythmic  rise 
and  fall,  first  hiding  and  then  disclosing  the  profile  of  his  firm 
mouth  and  powerful  brow.  Two  slighter  ebony  figures,  one  at 


THE  GARMENT  OF  FEAR.  253 

the  anvil,  the  other  at  the  bellows,  served  to  set  off  his  supe¬ 
rior  massiveness. 

Tito  darkened  the  doorway  with  a  very  different  outline, 
standing  in  silence,  since  it  was  useless  to  speak  until  Niccol6 
should  deign  to  pause  and  notice  him.  That  was  not  until  the 
smith  had  beaten  the  head  of  an  axe  to  the  due  shai*pness  of 
edge  and  dismissed  it  from  his  anvil.  But  in  the  mean  time 
Tito  had  satisfied  himself  by  a  glance  round  the  shop  that  the 
object  of  which  he  was  in  search  had  not  disappeared. 

Niccolo  gave  an  unceremonious  but  good-humored  nod  as  he 
turned  from  the  anvil  and  rested  his  hammer  on  his  hip. 

‘‘  What  is  it,  Messer  Tito  ?  Business  ?  ” 

“  Assuredly,  ISTiccolo ;  else  I  should  not  have  ventured  to 
interrupt  you  when  you  are  working  out  of  hours,  since  I  take 
that  as  a  sign  that  your  work  is  pressing.” 

“  I  We  been  at  the  same  work  all  day  —  making  axes  and 
spear-heads.  And  every  fool  that  has  passed  iny  shop  has  put 
his  pumpkin-head  in  to  say,  ‘^ISTiccolo,  wilt  thou  not  come  and 
see  the  King  of  France  and  his  soldiers  ?  ’  and  I ’ve  answered, 
‘No:  I  don’t  want  to  see  their  faces  —  I  want  to  see  their 
backs.’” 

“Are  you  making  arms  for  the  citizens,  then,  Niccolb,  that 
they  may  have  something  better  than  rusty  scythes  and  spits 
in  case  of  an  uproar  ?  ” 

“We  shall  see.  Arms  are  good,  and  Florence  is  likely  to 
want  them.  The  Frate  tells  us  we  shall  get  Pisa  again,  and  I 
hold  with  the  Frate;  but  I  should  be  glad  to  know  how  the 
promise  is  to  be  fulfilled,  if  we  don’t  get  plenty  of  good  weap¬ 
ons  forged  ?  The  Frate  sees  a  long  way  before  him ;  that  I 
believe.  But  he  doesn’t  see  birds  caught  with  winking  at 
them,  as  some  of  our  people  try  to  make  out.  He  sees  sense, 
and  not  nonsense.  But  you’re  a  bit  of  a  Medicean,  Messer 
Tito  Melema.  Ebbene  !  so  I ’ve  been  myself  in  my  time,  before 
the  cask  began  to  run  sour.  What ’s  your  business  ?  ” 

“  Simply  to  know  the  price  of  that  fine  coat  of  mail  I  saw 
hanging  up  here  the  other  day.  T  want  to  buy  it  for  a  certain 
personage  who  needs  a  protection  of  that  sort  under  his 
doublet.” 


254 


ROMOLA. 


‘^Let  him  come  and  buy  it  himself,  then,”  said  Niccolb, 
bluntly.  “  I ’m  rather  nice  about  what  I  sell,  and  whom  I  sell 
to.  I  like  to  know  who ’s  my  customer.” 

‘‘I  know  your  scruides,  Niccolo.  But  that  is  only  defensive 
armor :  it  can  hurt  nobody.” 

“  True :  but  it  may  make  the  man  who  wears  it  feel  himself 
all  the  safer  if  he  should  want  to  hurt  somebody.  No,  no; 
it ’s  not  my  own  work ;  but  it ’s  fine  work  of  Maso  of  Brescia ; 
I  should  be  loath  for  it  to  cover  the  heart  of  a  scoundrel.  I 
must  know  who  is  to  wear  it.” 

“  Well,  then,  to  be  plain  with  you,  Niccolo  mio,  I  want  it 
myself,”  said  Tito,  knowing  it  was  useless  to  try  persuasion. 
“  The  faet  is,  I  am  likely  to  have  a  journey  to  take  —  and  you 
know  what  journeying  is  in  these  times.  You  don’t  suspect 
me  of  treason  dgainst  the  Republic  ?  ” 

“No,  I  know  no  harm  of  you,”  said  Niccolb,  in  his  blunt 
way  again.  “But  have  you  the  money  to  pay  for  the  coat? 
For  you’ve  passed  my  shop  often  enough  to  know  my  sign: 
you  ’ve  seen  the  burning  account-books.  I  trust  nobody.  The 
price  is  twenty  florins,  and  that’s  because  it’s  second-hand. 
You  ’re  not  likely  to  have  so  much  money  with  you.  Let  it 
be  till  to-morrow.” 

“  I  happen  to  have  the  money,”  said  Tito,  who  had  been 
winning  at  play  the  day  before,  and  had  not  emptied  his  purse. 
“  I  ’ll  carry  the  armor  home  with  me.” 

Niccolo  reached  down  the  finely  wrought  coat,  which  fell 
together  into  little  more  than  two  handfuls. 

“  There,  then,”  he  said,  when  the  florins  had  been  told  down 
on  his  palm.  “  Take  the  coat.  It ’s  made  to  cheat  sword,  or 
poniard,  or  arrow.  But,  for  my  part,  I  would  never  put  such  a 
thing  on.  It ’s  like  carrying  fear  about  with  one.” 

Niccolb’s  words  had  an  unpleasant  intensity  of  meaning  for 
Tito.  But  he  smiled  and  said  — 

“  Ah,  Niccolb,  we  scholars  are  all  cowards.  Handling  the 
pen  does  n’t  thicken  the  arm  as  your  hammer-wielding  does. 
Addib !  ” 

He  folded  the  armor  under  his  mantle,  and  hastened  across 
the  Ponte  Rubaconte. 


TKE  YOUNG  WIFE. 


255 


CHAPTEK  XXVII. 

THE  YOUNG  WIFE. 

While  Tito  was  hastening  across  the  bridge  with  the  new- 
bought  armor  under  his  mantle,  Eomola  was  pacing  up  and  down 
the  old  library,  thinking  of  him  and  longing  for  his  return. 

It  was  but  a  few  fair  faces  that  had  not  looked  forth  from 
windows  that  day  to  see  the  entrance  of  the  French  king  and 
his  nobles.  One  of  the  few  was  Komola’s.  She  had  been 
present  at  no  festivities  since  her  father  had  died  —  died  quite 
suddenly  in  his  chair,  three  months  before. 

“  Is  not  Tito  coming  to  write  ?  ”  he  had  said,  when  the  bell 
had  long  ago  sounded  the  usual  hour  in  the  evening.  He  had 
not  asked  before,  from  dread  of  a  negative  ;  but  Pomola  had 
seen  by  his  listening  face  and  restless  movements  that  nothing 
else  was  in  his  mind. 

No,  father,  he  had  to  go  to  a  supper  at  the  cardinal’s :  you 
know  he  is  wanted  so  much  by  every  one,”  she  answered,  in  a 
tone  of  gentle  excuse. 

“  Ah  !  then  perhaps  he  will  bring  some  positive  word  about 
the  library ;  the  cardinal  promised  last  week,”  said  Bardo, 
apparently  pacified  by  this  hope. 

He  was  silent  a  little  while;  then,  suddenly  flushing,  he 
said  — 

“  I  must  go  on  without  him,  Eomola.  Get  the  pen.  He  has 
brought  me  no  new  text  to  comment  on ;  but  I  must  say  what 
I  want  to  say  about  the  New  Platonists.  I  shall  die  and 
nothing  will  have  been  done.  Make  haste,  my  Eomola.” 

“  I  am  ready,  father,”  she  said,  the  next  minute,  holding  the 
pen  in  her  hand. 

But  there  was  silence.  Eomola  took  no  note  of  this  for  a 
little  while,  accustomed  to  pauses  in  dictation ;  and  when  at 
last  she  looked  round  inquiringly,  there  was  no  change  of 
attitude. 


256 


ROMOLA. 


1  am  quite  ready,  father  !  ” 

Still  Bardo  was  silent,  and  his  silence  was  never  again 
broken. 

Eomola  looked  back  on  that  hour  with  some  indignation 
against  herself,  because  even  with  the  first  outburst  of  her 
sorrow  there  had  mingled  the  irrepressible  thought,  “Perhaps 
:ny  life  with  Tito  will  be  more  perfect  now.” 

For  the  dream  of  a  triple  life  with  an  undivided  sum  of 
happiness  had  not  been  quite  fulfilled.  The  rainbowTinted 
shower  of  sweets,  to  have  been  perfectly  typical,  should  have 
had  some  invisible  seeds  of  bitterness  mingled  with  them  ;  the 
crowned  Ariadne,  under  the  snowing  roses,  had  felt  more  and 
more  the  presence  of  unexpected  thorns.  It  was  not  Tito’s 
fault,  Romola  had  continually  assured  herself.  He  was  still 
all  gentleness  to  her,  and  to  her  father  also.  But  it  was  in 
the  nature  of  things  —  she  saw  it  clearly  now  —  it  was  in  the 
nature  of  things  that  no  one  but  herself  could  go  on  month 
after  month,  and  year  after  year,  fulfilling  patiently  all  her 
father’s  monotonous  exacting  demands.  .  Even  she,  whose 
sympathy  with  her  father  had  made  all  the  passion  and  re¬ 
ligion  of  her  young  years,  had  not  always  been  patient,  had 
been  inwardly  very  rebellious.  It  was  true  that  before  their 
marriage,  and  even  for  some  time  after,  Tito  had  seemed  more 
unwearying  than  herself ;  but  then,  of  course,  the  effort  had 
the  ease  of  novelty.  We  assume  a  load  with  confident  readi¬ 
ness,  and  up  to  a  certain  point  the  growing  irksomeness  of 
pressure  is  tolerable ;  but  at  last  the  desire  for  relief  can  no 
longer  be  resisted.  Romola  said  to  herself  that  she  had  been 
very  foolish  and  ignorant  in  her  girlish  time  :  she  was  wiser 
now,  and  would  make  no  unfair  demands  on  the  man  to  whom 
she  had  given  her  best  woman’s  love  and  worship.  The 
breath  of  sadness  that  still  cleaved  to  her  lot  while  she  saw 
her  father  month  after  month  sink  from  elation  into  new  dis¬ 
appointment  as  Tito  gave  him  less  and  less  of  his  time,  and 
made  bland  excuses  for  not  continuing  his  own  share  of  the 
joint  work  —  that  sadness  was  no  fault  of  Tito’s,  she  said,  but 
rather  of  their  inevitable  destiny.  If  he  stayed  less  and  less 
with  her,  why,  that  was  because  they  could  hardly  ever  be 


THE  YOUNG  WIFE. 


257 


alone.  His  caresses  were  no  less  tender  :  if  she  pleaded 
timidly  on  any  one  evening  that  he  should  stay  with  her 
father  instead  of  going  to  another  engagement  which  was  not 
peremptory,  he  excused  himself  with  such  charming  gayety,  he 
seemed  to  linger  about  her  with  such  fond  playfulness  before 
he  could  quit  her,  that  she  could  only  feel  a  little  heartache  in 
the  midst  of  her  love,  and  then  go  to  her  father  and  try  to 
soften  his  vexation  and  disappointment.  But  all  the  while 
inwardly  her  imagination  was  busy  trying  to  see  how  Tito 
could  be  as  good  as  she  had  thought  he  was,  and  yet  find  it 
impossible  to  sacrifice  those  pleasures  of  society  which  were 
necessarily  more  vivid  to  a  bright  creature  like  him  than  to 
the  common  run  of  men.  She  herself  would  have  liked  more 
gayety,  more  admiration :  it  was  true,  she  gave  it  up  willingly 
for  her  father’s  sake  —  she  would  have  given  up  much  more 
than  that  for  the  sake  even  of  a  slight  wish  on  Tito’s  part. 
It  was  clear  that  their  natures  differed  widely  ;  but  perhaps  it 
was  no  more  than  the  inherent  difference  between  man  and 
woman,  that  made  her  affections  more  absorbing.  If  there 
were  any  other  difference  she  tried  to  persuade  herself  that 
the  inferiority  was  on  her  side.  Tito  was  really  kinder  than 
she  was,  better  tempered,  less  proud  and  resentful ;  he  had  no 
angry  retorts,  he  met  all  complaints  with  perfect  sweetness ; 
he  only  escaped  as  quietly  as  he  could  from  things  that  were 
unpleasant. 

It  belongs  to  every  large  nature,  when  it  is  not  under  the 
immediate  power  of  some  strong  unquestioning  emotion,  to 
suspect  itself,  and  doubt  the  truth  of  its  own  impressions, 
conscious  of  possibilities  beyond  its  own  horizon.  And  Eomola 
was  urged  to  doubt  herself  the  more  by  the  necessity  of  inter¬ 
preting  her  disappointment  in  her  life  with  Tito  so  as  to  satisfy 
at  once  her  love  and  her  pride.  Disappointment  ?  Yes,  there 
was  no  other  milder  word  that  would  tell  the  truth.  Perhaps 
all  women  had  to  suffer  the  disappointment  of  ignorant  hopes, 
if  she  only  knew  their  experience.  Still,  there  had  been 
something  peculiar  in  her  lot :  her  relation  to  her  father  had 
claimed  unusual  sacrifices  from  her  husband,  Tito  had  once 
thought  that  his  love  would  make  those  sacrifises  easy ;  his 

17 


VOL.  V. 


258 


ROMOLA. 


love  had  not  been  great  enough  tor  that.  She  was  not  justified 
in  resenting  a  self-delusion,  hio  !  resentment  must  not  rise : 
all  endurance  seemed  easy  to  Eomola  rather  than  a  state  of 
mind  in  which  she  would  admit  to  herself  that  Tito  acted 
unworthily.  If  she  had  felt  a  new  heartache  in  the  solitary 
hours  with  her  father  through  the  last  months  of  his  life,  it 
had  been  by  no  inexcusable  fault  of  her  husband’s;  and  now  — 
it  was  a  hope  that  would  make  its  presence  felt  even  in  the 
first  moments  when  her  father’s  place  was  empty  —  there  was 
no  longer  any  importunate  claim  to  divide  her  from  Tito ; 
their  young  lives  would  flow  in  one  current,  and  their  true 
marriage  would  begin. 

But  the  sense  of  something  like  guilt  towards  her  father  in 
a  hope  that  grew  out  of  his  death,  gave  all  the  more  force  to 
the  anxiety  with  which  she  dwelt  on  the  means  of  fulfilling 
his  supreme  wish.  That  piety  towards  his  memory  was  all 
the  atonement  she  could  make  now  for  a  thought  that  seemed 
akin  to  joy  at  his  loss.  The  laborious  simple  life,  pure  from 
vulgar  corrupting  ambitions,  embittered  by  the  frustration  of 
the  dearest  hopes,  imprisoned  at  last  in  total  darkness  —  a 
long  seed-time  without  a  harvest  —  was  at  an  end  now,  and 
all  that  remained  of  it  besides  the  tablet  in  Santa  Croce  and 
the  unfinished  commentary  on  Tito’s  text,  was  the  collection 
of  manuscripts  and  antiquities,  the  fruit  of  half  a  century’s 
toil  and  frugality.  The  fulfilment  of  her  father’s  lifelong 
ambition  about  this  library  was  a  sacramental  obligation  for 
Bomola. 

The  precious  relic  was  safe  from  creditors,  for  when  the 
deficit  towards  their  payment  had  been  ascertained,  Bernardo 
del  Nero,  though  he  was  far  from  being  among  the  wealthiest 
Blorentines,  had  advanced  the  necessary  sum  of  about  a  thou¬ 
sand  florins  —  a  large  sum  in  those  days  —  accepting  a  lien  on 
the  collection  as  a  security. 

“  The  State  will  repay  me,”  he  had  said  to  Romola,  making 
light  of  the  service,  which  had  really  cost  him  some  inconven¬ 
ience.  “  If  the  cardinal  finds  a  building,  as  he  seems  to  say 
he  will,  our  Signoria  may  consent  to  do  the  rest.  I  have  no 
children,  I  can  afford  the  risk.” 


THE  YOUNG  WIFE. 


259 


But  within  the  last  ten  days  all  hopes  in  the  Medici  had 
come  to  an  end :  and  the  famous  Medicean  collections  in  the 
Via  Larga  were  themselves  in  danger  of  dispersion.  French 
agents  had  already  begun  to  see  that  such  very  fine  antique 
gems  as  Lorenzo  had  collected  belonged  by  right  to  the  first 
nation  in  Europe  ;  and  the  Florentine  State,  which  had  got 
possession  of  the  Medicean  library,  was  likely  to  be  glad  of  a 
customer  for  it.  With  a  war  to  recover  Pisa  hanging  over 
it,  and  with  the  certainty  of  having  to  pay  large  subsidies  to 
the  French  king,  the  State  was  likely  to  prefer  money  to 
manuscripts. 

To  Eomola  these  grave  political  changes  had  gathered  their 
chief  interest  from  their  bearing  on  the  fulfilment  of  her 
father’s  wish.  She  had  been  brought  up  in  learned  seclusion 
from  the  interests  of  actual  life,  and  had  been  accustomed  to 
think  of  heroic  deeds  and  great  principles  as  something  anti¬ 
thetic  to  the  vulgar  present,  of  the  Pnyx  and  the  Forum  as 
something  more  worthy  of  attention  than  the  councils  of 
living  Florentine  men.  And  now  the  expulsion  of  the  Medici 
meant  little  more  for  her  than  the  extinction  of  her  best  hope 
about  her  father’s  library.  The  times,  she  knew,  were  unpleas¬ 
ant  for  friends  of  the  Medici,  like  her  godfather  and  Tito  : 
superstitious  shopkeepers  and  the  stupid  rabble  were  full  of 
suspicions ;  but  her  new  keen  interest  in  public  events,  in  the 
outbreak  of  war,  in  the  issue  of  the  French  king’s  visit,  in  the 
changes  that  were  likely  to  happen  in  the  State,  was  kindled 
solely  by  the  sense  of  love  and  duty  to  her  father’s  memory. 
All  Romola’s  ardor  had  been  concentrated  in  her  affections. 
Her  share  in  her  father’s  learned  pursuits  had  been  for  her 
little  more  than  a  toil  which  was  borne  for  his  sake ;  and  Tito’s 
airy  brilliant  faculty  had  no  attraction  for  her  that  was  not 
merged  in  the  deeper  sympathies  that  belong  to  young  love 
and  trust.  Eomola  had  had  contact  with  no  mind  that  could 
stir  the  larger  possibilities  of  her  nature ;  they  lay  folded  and 
crushed  like  embryonic  wings,  making  no  element  in  her 
consciousness  beyond  an  occasional  vague  uneasiness. 

But  this  new  personal  interest  of  hers  in  public  affairs  had 
made  her  care  at  last  to  understand  precisely  what  influence 


260 


ROMOLA. 


Fra  Girolamo’s  preaching  was  likely  to  have  on  the  turn  of 
events.  Changes  in  the  form  of  the  State  were  talked  of,  and 
all  she  could  learn  from  Tito,  whose  secretaryship  and  ser¬ 
viceable  talents  carried  him  into  the  heart  of  public  business, 
made  her  only  the  more  eager  to  fill  out  her  lonely  day  by 
going  to  hear  for  herself  what  it  was  that  was  just  now  lead¬ 
ing  all  Florence  by  the  ears.  This  morning,  for  the  first  time, 
she  had  been  to  hear  one  of  the  Advent  sermons  in  the 
Duomo.  When  Tito  had  left  her,  she  had  formed  a  sudden 
resolution,  and  after  visiting  the  spot  where  her  father  was 
buried  in  Santa  Croce,  had  walked  on  to  the  Duomo.  The 
memory  of  that  last  scene  with  Dino  was  still  vivid  within 
her  whenever  she  recalled  it,  but  it  had  receded  behind  the 
experience  and  anxieties  of  her  married  life.  The  new  sensi¬ 
bilities  and  questions  which  it  had  half  awakened  in  her  were 
quieted  again  by  that  subjection  to  her  husband’s  mind  which 
is  felt  by  every  wife  who  loves  her  husband  with  passionate 
devotedness  and  full  reliance.  She  remembered  the  effect  of 
Fra  Girolamo’s  voice  and  presence  on  her  as  a  ground  fot  ex¬ 
pecting  that  his  sermon  might  move  her  in  spite  of  his  being 
a  narrow-minded  monk.  But  the  sermon  did  no  more  than 
slightly  deepen  her  previous  impression,  that  this  fanatical 
preacher  of  tribulations  was  after  all  a  man  towards  whom  it 
might  be  possible  for  her  to  feel  personal  regard  and  rever¬ 
ence.  The  denunciations  and  exhortations  simply  arrested 
her  attention.  She  felt  no  terror,  no  pangs  of  conscience :  it 
was  the  roll  of  distant  thunder,  that  seemed  grand,  but  could 
not  shake  her.  But  when  she  heard  Savonarola  invoke  mar¬ 
tyrdom,  she  sobbed  with  the  rest :  she  felt  herself  penetrated 
with  a  new  sensation  —  a  strange  sympathy  with  something 
apart  from  all  the  definable  interests  of  her  life.  It  was  not 
altogether  unlike  the  thrill  which  had  accompanied  certain 
rare  heroic  touches  in  history  and  poetry ;  but  the  resem¬ 
blance  was  as  that  between  the  memory  of  music,  and  the 
sense  of  being  possessed  by  actual  vibrating  harmonies. 

But  that  transient  emotion,  strong  as  it  was,  seemed  to  lie 
quite  outside  the  inner  chamber  and  sanctuary  of  her  life. 
She  was  not  thinking  of  Fra  Girolamo  now;  she  was  listening 


THE  YOUNG  WIFE. 


261 


anxiously  for  the  step  of  her  husband.  During  these  three 
months  of  their  double  solitude  she  had  thought  of  each  day 
as  an  epoch  in  which  their  union  might  begin  to  be  more  per¬ 
fect.  She  was  conscious  of  being  sometimes  a  little  too  sad  or 
too  urgent  about  what  concerned  her  father’s  memory  —  a  little 
too  critical  or  coldly  silent  when  Tito  narrated  the  things  that 
were  said  and  done  in  the  world  he  frequented  —  a  little  too 
hasty  in  suggesting  that  by  living  quite  simply  as  her  father 
had  done,  they  might  become  rich  enough  to  pay  Bernardo  del 
Nero,  and  reduce  the  difficulties  about  the  library.  It  was 
not  possible  that  Tito  could  feel  so  strongly  on  this  last  point 
as  she  did,  and  it  was  asking  a  great  deal  from  him  tu  give  up 
luxuries  for  which  he  really  labored.  The  next  time  Tito 
came  home  she  would  be  careful  to  suppress  all  those  prompt¬ 
ings  that  seemed  to  isolate  her  from  him.  Eomola  was  la¬ 
boring,  as  a  loving  woman  must,  to  subdue  her  nature  to  her 
husband’s.  The  great  need  of  her  heart  compelled  her  to 
strangle,  with  desperate  resolution,  every  rising  impulse  of 
suspicion,  pride,  and  resentment ;  she  felt  equal  to  any  self- 
infliction  that  would  save  her  from  ceasing  to  love.  That 
would  have  been  like  the  hideous  nightmare  in  which  the 
world  had  seemed  to  break  away  all  round  her,  and  leave  her 
feet  overhanging  the  darkness.  Eomola  had  never  distinctly 
imagined  such  a  future  for  herself ;  she  was  only  beginning 
to  feel  the  presence  of  effort  in  that  clinging  trust  which  had 
once  been  mere  repose. 

She  waited  and  listened  long,  for  Tito  had  not  come  straight 
home  after  leaving  Niccolb  Caparra,  and  it  was  more  than  two 
hours  after  the  time  when  he  was  crossing  the  Ponte  Euba- 
conte  that  Eomola  heard  the  great  door  of  the  court  turning 
on  its  hinges,  and  hastened  to  the  head  of  the  stone  steps. 
There  was  a  lamp  hanging  over  the  stairs,  and  they  could  see 
each  other  distinctly  as  he  ascended.  The  eighteen  months 
had  produced  a  more  definable  change  in  Eomola’s  face  than 
in  Tito’s  ;  the  expression  was  more  subdued,  less  cold,  and 
more  beseeching,  and,  as  the  pink  flush  overspread  her  face 
now,  in  her  joy  that  the  long  waiting  was  at  an  end,  she  was 
much  lovelier  than  on  tue  day  when  Tito  had  first  seen  her. 


262 


ROMOLA. 


On  that  day,  any  on-looker  would  have  said  that  Eomola’s 
nature  was  made  to  command,  and  Tito’s  to  bend  ;  yet  now 
Romola’s  mouth  was  quivering  a  little,  and  there  was  some 
timidity  in  her  glance. 

He  made  an  effort  to  smile,  as  she  said  — 

‘‘  My  Tito,  you  are  tired ;  it  has  been  a  fatiguing  day :  is  it 
not  true  ?  ” 

Maso  was  there,  and  no  more  was  said  until  they  had  crossed 
the  ante-chamber  and  closed  the  door  of  the  library  behind 
them.  The  wood  was  burning  brightly  on  the  great  dogs  ; 
that  was  one  welcome  for  Tito,  late  as  he  was,  and  Romola’s 
gentle  voice  was  another. 

He  just  turned  and  kissed  her  wRen  she  took  off  his  man¬ 
tle  ;  then  he  went  towards  a  high-backed  chair  placed  for  him 
near  the  fire,  threw  himself  into  it,  and  flung  away  his  cap, 
saying,  not  peevishly,  but  in  a  fatigued  tone  of  remonstrance, 
as  he  gave  a  slight  shudder  — 

“  Romola,  I  wish  you  would  give  up  sitting  in  this  library. 
Surely  our  own  rooms  are  pleasanter  in  this  chill  weather.” 

Romola  felt  hurt.  She  had  never  seen  Tito  so  indifferent 
in  his  manner ;  he  was  usually  full  of  lively  solicitous  atten¬ 
tion.  And  she  had  thought  so  much  of  his  return  to  her  after 
the  long  day’s  absence  !  He  must  be  very  weary. 

“  I  wonder  you  have  forgotten,  Tito,”  she  answered,  looking 
at  him  anxiously,  as  if  she  wanted  to  read  an  excuse  for  him 
in  the  signs  of  bodily  fatigue.  “You  know  I  am  making  the 
catalogue  on  the  new  plan  that  my  father  wished  for;  you 
have  not  time  to  help  me,  so  I  must  work  at  it  closely.” 

Tito,  instead  of  meeting  Romola’s  glance,  closed  his  eyes 
and  rubbed  his  hands  over  his  face  and  hair.  He  felt  he  was 
behaving  unlike  himself,  but  he  would  make  amends  to-morrow. 
The  terrible  resurrection  of  secret  fears,  which,  if  Romola  had 
known  them,  would  have  alienated  her  from  him  forever, 
caused  him  to  feel  an  alienation  already  begun  between  them 
—  caused  him  to  feel  a  certain  repulsion  towards  a  woman 
from  whose  mind  he  was  in  danger.  The  feeling  had  taken 
hold  of  him  unawares,  and  he  was  vexed  with  himself  for 
behaving  in  this  new  cold  way  to  her.  He  could  not  suddenly 


THE  YOUNG  WIFE.  263 

command  any  affectionate  looks  or  words ;  he  could  only  exert 
himself  to  say  what  might  serve  as  an  excuse. 

‘‘  I  am  not  well,  Komola ;  you  must  not  be  surprised  if  I  am 
peevish.” 

“  Ah,  you  have  had  so  much  to  tire  you  to-day,”  said  Komola, 
kneeling  down  close  to  him,  and  laying  her  arm  on  his  chest 
while  she  put  his  hair  back  caressingly. 

Suddenly  she  drew  her  arm  away  with  a  start,  and  a  gaze  of 
alarmed  inquiry. 

“  What  have  you  got  under  your  tunic,  Tito  ?  Something  as 
hard  as  iron.” 

It  is  iron  —  it  is  chain-armor,”  he  said  at  once.  He  was 
prepared  for  the  surprise  and  the  question,  and  he  spoke  quietly, 
as  of  something  that  he  was  not  hurried  to  explain. 

“  There  was  some  unexpected  danger  to-day,  then  ?  ”  said 
Komola,  in  a  tone  of  conjecture.  You  had  it  lent  to  you  for 
the  procession  ?  ” 

“  No  ;  it  is  my  own.  I  shall  be  obliged  to  wear  it  constantly, 
for  some  time.” 

“  What  is  it  that  threatens  you,  my  Tito  ?  ”  said  Komola, 
looking  terrified,  and  clinging  to  him  again. 

‘‘  Every  one  is  threatened  in  these  times,  who  is  not  a  rabid 
enemy  of  the  Medici.  Don’t  look  distressed,  my  Komola  — 
this  armor  will  make  me  safe  against  covert  attacks.” 

Tito  put  his  hand  on  her  neck  and  smiled.  This  little 
dialogue  about  the  armor  had  broken  through  the  new  crust, 
and  made  a  channel  for  the  sweet  habit  of  kindness. 

“But  my  godfather,  then,”  said  Komola;  “is  not  he,  too,  in 
danger  ?  And  he  takes  no  precautions  —  ought  he  not  ?  since 
he  must  surely  be  in  more  danger  than  you,  who  have  so  little 
influence  compared  with  him.” 

“It  is  just  because  I  am  less  important  that  I  am  in  more 
danger,”  said  Tito,  readily.  “  I  am  suspected  constantly  of 
being  an  envoy.  And  men  like  Messer  Bernardo  are  protected 
by  their  position  and  their  extensive  family  connections,  which 
spread  among  all  parties,  while  I  am  a  Greek  that  nobody 
'^ould  avenge.” 

“But,  Tito,  is  it  a  fear  of  some  particular  person,  or  only  a 


264 


410M0LA. 


vague  sense  of  danger,  that  has  made  you  think  of  wearing 
this  ?  ”  Romola  was  unable  to  repel  the  idea  of  a  degrading 
fear  in  Tito,  which  mingled  itself  with  her  anxiety. 

‘‘I  have  had  special  threats,”  said  Tito,  “but  I  must  beg 
you  to  be  silent  on  the  subject,  my  Eomola.  I  shall  consider 
that  you  have  broken  my  confidence,  if  you  mention  it  to  your 
godfather.” 

“  Assuredly  I  will  not  mention  it,”  said  Romola,  blushing, 
“  if  you  wish  it  to  be  a  secret.  But,  dearest  Tito,”-  she  added, 
after  a  moment’s  pause,  in  a  tone  of  loving  anxiety,  “  it  will 
make  you  very  wretched.” 

“  What  will  make  me  wretched  ?  ”  he  said,  with  a  scarcely 
perceptible  movement  across  his  face,  as  from  some  darting 
sensation. 

“  This  fear  —  this  heavy  armor.  I  can’t  help  shuddering  as 
I  feel  it  under  my  arm.  I  could  fancy  it  a  story  of  enchant¬ 
ment  —  that  some  malignant  fiend  had  changed  your  sensitive 
human  skin  into  a  hard  shell.  It  seems  so  unlike  my  bright, 
light-hearted  Tito !  ” 

“  Then  you  would  rather  have  your  husband  exposed  to 
danger,  when  he  leaves  you  ?  ”  said  Tito,  smiling.  “  If  you 
don’t  mind  my  being  poniarded  or  shot,  why  need  I  mind  ?  I 
will  give  up  the  armor  —  shall  I  ?  ” 

“  No,  Tito,  no.  I  am  fanciful.  Do  not  heed  what  I  have 
said.  But  such  crimes  are  surely  not  common  in  Florence  ? 
I  have  always  heard  my  father  and  godfather  say  so.  Have 
they  become  frequent  lately  ?  ” 

“It  is  not  unlikely  they  will  become  frequent,  with  the 
bitter  hatreds  that  are  being  bred  continually.” 

Romola  was  silent  a  few  moments.  She  shrank  from  insist¬ 
ing  further  on  the  subject  of  the  armor.  She  tried  to  shake 
it  off. 

“  Tell  me  what  has  happened  to-day,”  she  said,  in  a  cheerful 
tone.  “  Has  all  gone  off  well  ?  ” 

“  Excellently  well.  First  of  all,  the  rain  came  and  put  an 
end  to  Luca  Corsini’s  oration,  which  nobody  wanted  to  hear, 
and  a  ready-tongued  personage  —  some  say  it  was  Gaddi,  some 
say  it  was  Melema,  but  really  it  was  done  so  quickly  no  one 


THE  YOUNG  WIFE.  265 

knows  wlio  it  was  - —  had  the  honor  of  giving  the  Cristianissimo 
the  briefest  possible  welcome  in  bad  French.” 

Tito,  it  was  you,  I  know,”  said  Romola,  smiling  brightly, 
and  kissing  him.  “  How  is  it  you  never  care  about  claiming 
anything  ?  And  after  that  ?  ” 

“  Oh  !  after  that,  there  was  a  shower  of  armor  and  jewels,  and 
trappings,  such  as  you  saw  at  the  last  Florentine  giostra,  only 
a  great  deal  more  of  them.  There  was  strutting,  and  pranc¬ 
ing,  and  confusion,  and  scrambling,  and  the  people  shouted, 
and  the  Cristianissimo  smiled  from  ear  to  ear.  And  after  that 
there  was  a  great  deal  of  flattery,  and  eating,  and  play.  I  was 
at  Tornabuoni’s.  I  will  tell  you  about  it  to-morrow.” 

Yes,  dearest,  never  mind  now.  But  is  there  any  more 
hope  that  things  will  end  peaceably  for  Florence,  that  the 
Eepublic  will  not  get  into  fresh  troubles  ?  ” 

Tito  gave  a  shrug.  ‘‘Florence  will  have  no  peace  but  what 
it  pays  well  for ;  that  is  clear.” 

Bomola’s  face  saddened,  but  she  checked  herself,  and  said, 
cheerfully,  “  You  would  not  guess  where  I  went  to-day,  Tito. 
I  went  to  the  Duomo,  to  hear  Fra  Girolamo.” 

Tito  looked  startled  ;  he  had  immediately  thought  of  Baldas- 
sarre’s  entrance  into  the  Duomo ;  but  Bomola  gave  his  look 
another  meaning. 

“  You  are  surprised,  are  you  not  ?  It  was  a  sudden  thought. 
I  want  to  know  all  about  the  public  affairs  now,  and  I  deter¬ 
mined  to  hear  for  myself  what  the  Frate  promised  the  people 
about  this  French  invasion.” 

“Well,  and  what  did  you  think  of  the  prophet  ?  ” 

“  He  certainly  has  a  very  mysterious  power,  that  man.  A 
great  deal  of  his  sermon  was  what  I  expected ;  but  once  I  was 
strangely  moved  —  I  sobbed  with  the  rest.” 

“  Take  care,  Eomola,”  said  Tito,  playfully,  feeling  relieveu 
that  she  had  said  nothing  about  Baldassarre  ;  “  you  have  a 
touch  of  fanaticism  in  you.  I  shall  have  you  seeing  visions, 
like  your  brother.” 

“No  ;  it  was  the  same  with  every  one  else.  He  carried  them 
all  with  him  ;  unless  it  were  that  gross  Dolfo  Spini,  wdiom  I 
saw  there  making  grimaces.  There  was  even  a  wretched- 


266 


HOMOLA. 


looking  man,  with  a  rope  round  his  neck  —  an  escaped  pris¬ 
oner,  I  should  think,  who  had  run  in  for  shelter  —  a  very 
wild-eyed  old  man :  I  saw  him  with  great  tears  rolling  down 
his  cheeks,  as  he  looked  and  listened  quite  eagerly.” 

There  was  a  slight  pause  before  Tito  spoke. 

“  I  saw  the  man,”  he  said,  —  “  the  prisoner.  I  was  outside 
the  Duomo  with  Lorenzo  Tornabuoni  when  he  ran  in.  He 
had  escaped  from  a  French  soldier.  Did  you  see  him  when 
you  came  out  ?  ” 

“  No,  he  went  out  with  our  good  old  Piero  di  Cosimo.  I 
saw  Piero  come  in  and  cut  off  his  rope,  and  take  him  out  of 
the  church.  But  you  want  rest,  Tito  ?  You  feel  ill  ?  ” 

‘‘  Yes,”  said  Tito,  rising.  The  horrible  sense  that  he  must 
live  in  continual  dread  of  what  Baldassarre  had  said  or  done 
pressed  upon  him  like  a  cold  weight. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

THE  PAINTED  RECORD. 

Four  days  later,  Romola  was  on  her  way  to  the  house  of 
Piero  di  Cosimo,  in  the  Via  Gualfonda.  Some  of  the  streets 
through  which  she  had  to  pass  were  lined  with  Frenchmen 
who  were  gazing  at  Florence,  and  with  Florentines  who  were 
gazing  at  the  French,  and  the  gaze  was  not  on  either  side  en¬ 
tirely  friendly  and  admiring.  The  lirst  nation  in  Europe,  of 
necessity  finding  itself,  when  out  of  its  own  country,  in  the 
presence  of  general  inferiority,  naturally  assumed  an  air  of 
conscious  pre-eminence ;  and  the  Florentines,  who  had  taken 
such  pains  to  play  the  host  amiably,  were  getting  into  the 
worst  humor  with  their  too  superior  guests. 

For  after  the  first  smiling  compliments  and  festivities  were 
over  —  after  wondrous  Mysteries  with  unrivalled  machinery 
of  floating  clouds  and  angels  had  been  presented  in  churches 
—  after  the  royal  guest  had  honored  Florentine  dames  with 


THE  PAINTED  llECORD. 


267 


much  of  his  Most  Christian  ogling  at  balls  and  suppers,  and 
business  had  begun  to  be  talked  of  —  it  appeared  that  the  new 
Charlemagne  regarded  Florence  as  a  conquered  city,  inasmuch 
as  he  had  entered  it  with  his  lance  in  rest,  talked  of  leaving 
his  viceroy  behind  him,  and  had  thoughts  of  bringing  back  the 
Medici.  Singular  logic  this  appeared  to  be  on  the  part  of  an 
elect  instrument  of  God  !  since  the  policy  of  Piero  de’  Medici, 
disowned  by  the  people,  had  been  the  only  offence  of  Florence 
against  the  majesty  of  France.  And  Florence  was  determined 
not  to  submit.  The  determination  was  being  expressed  very 
strongly  in  consultations  of  citizens  inside  the  Old  Palace,  and 
it  was  beginning  to  show  itself  on  the  broad  flags  of  the  streets 
and  piazza  wherever  there  was  an  opportunity  of  flouting  an 
insolent  Frenchman.  Under  these  circumstances  the  streets 
were  not  altogether  a  pleasant  promenade  for  well-born  wo¬ 
men  ;  but  Romola,  shrouded  in  her  black  veil  and  mantle,  and 
with  old  Maso  by  her  side,  felt  secure  enough  from  imperti¬ 
nent  observation. 

And  she  was  impatient  to  visit  Piero  di  Cosimo.  A  copy  of 
her  father’s  portrait  as  CEdipus,  which  he  had  long  ago  under¬ 
taken  to  make  for  her,  was  not  yet  finished  ;  and  Piero  was  so 
uncertain  in  his  work  —  sometimes,  when  the  demand  was  not 
peremptory,  laying  aside  a  picture  for  months ;  sometimes 
thrusting  it  into  a  corner  or  coffer,  where  it  was  likely  to  be 
utterly  forgotten  —  that  she  felt  it  necessary  to  watch  over 
his  progress.  She  was  a  favorite  with  the  painter,  and  he  was 
inclined  to  fulfil  any  wish  of  hers,  but  no  general  inclination 
could  be  trusted  as  a  safeguard  against  his  sudden  whims.  He 
had  told  her  the  week  before  that  the  picture  would  perhaps 
be  finished  by  this  time  ;  and  Romola  was  nervously  anxious 
to  have  in  her  possession  a  copy  of  the  only  portrait  existing 
of  her  father  in  the  days  of  his  blindness,  lest  his  imago 
should  grow  dim  in  her  mind.  The  sense  of  defect  in  her 
devotedness  to  him  made  her  cling  with  all  the  force  of  com¬ 
punction  as  well  as  affection  to  the  duties  of  memory.  Love 
does  not  aim  simply  at  the  conscious  good  of  the  beloved  ob¬ 
ject  :  it  is  not  satisfied  without  perfect  loyalty  of  heart ;  it 
aims  at  its  own  completeness. 


268 


ROMOLA. 


Romola,  Ly  special  favor,  was  allowed  to  intrude  upon  the 
painter  without  previous  notice.  She  lifted  the  iron  slide  and 
called  Piero  in  a  flute-like  to2ie,  as  the  little  maiden  with  the 
eggs  had  done  in  Tito’s  presence.  Piero  was  quick  in  answer¬ 
ing,  but  when  he  opened  the  door  he  accounted  for  his  quickness 
in  a  manner  that  was  not  complimentary. 

“Ah,  Madonna  Eomola,  is  it  you?  I  thought  my  eggs  were 
come;  I  wanted  them.” 

“  I  have  brought  you  something  better  than  hard  eggs, 
Piero.  Maso  has  got  a  little  basket  full  of  cakes  and  confetti 
for  you,”  said  Eomola,  smiling,  as  she  put  back  her  veil.  She 
took  the  basket  from  Maso,  and  stepping  into  the  house, 
said  — 

“  I  know  you  like  these  things  when  you  can  have  them 
without  trouble.  Confess  you  do.” 

“Yes,  when  they  come  to  me  as  easily  as  the  light  does,” 
said  Piero,  folding  his  arms  and  looking  down  at  the  sweet¬ 
meats  as  Eomola  uncovered  them  and  glanced  at  him  archly. 
“And  they  are  come  along  with  the  light  now,”  he  added, 
lifting  his  eyes  to  her  face  and  hair  with  a  painter’s  admiration, 
as  her  hood,  dragged  by  the  weight  of  her  veil,  fell  backward. 

“But  I  know  what  the  sweetmeats  are  for,  ”  he  went  on; 
“they  are  to  stop  my  mouth  while  you  scold  me.  Well,  go 
on  into  the  next  room,  and  you  will  see  I ’ve  done  something 
to  the  picture  since  you  saw  it,  though  it ’s  not  flnished  yet. 
But  I  did  n’t  promise,  you  know  :  I  take  care  not  to  promise ; 

‘  Chi  promette  e  non  mantiene 
L’anima  sua  non  va  mai  bene.’  ” 

The  door  opening  on  the  wild  garden  was  closed  now,  and 
the  painter  was  at  work.  Not  at  Eomola’s  picture,  however. 
That  was  standing  on  the  floor,  propped  against  the  wall,  and 
Piero  stooped  to  lift  it,  that  he  might  carry  it  into  the  proper 
light.  But  in  lifting  away  this  picture,  he  had  disclosed  an¬ 
other  —  the  oil-sketch  of  Tito,  to  which  he  had  made  an 
important  addition  within  the  last  few  days.  It  was  so 
much  smaller  than  the  other  picture,  that  it  stood  far  within 
it,  and  Piero,  apt  to  forget  where  he  had  placed  anything,  was 


THE  PAINTED  KECORD. 


269 


not  aware  of  what  he  had  revealed  as,  peering  at  some  detail 
in  the  painting  which  he  held  in  his  hands,  he  went  to  place 
it  on  an  easel.  But  Romola  exclaimed,  flushing  with  aston¬ 
ishment  — 

“  That  is  Tito  !  ” 

Piero  looked  round,  and  gave  a  silent  shrug.  He  was  vexed 
at  his  own  forgetfulness. 

She  was  still  looking  at  the  sketch  in  astonishment ;  but 
presently  she  turned  towards  the  painter,  and  said  with 
puzzled  alarm  — 

“  What  a  strange  picture  !  When  did  you  paint  it  ?  What 
does  it  mean  ?  ” 

“A  mere  fancy  of  mine,”  said  Piero,  lifting  off  his  skull-cap, 
scratching  his  head,  and  making  the  usual  grimace  by  which  he 
avoided  the  betrayal  of  any  feeling.  “I  wanted  a  handsome 
young  face  for  it,  and  your  husband’s  was  just  the  thing.” 

He  went  forward,  stooped  down  to  the  picture,  and  lifting 
it  away  with  its  back  to  Eomola,  pretended  to  be  giving  it  a 
passing  examination,  before  putting  it  aside  as  a  thing  not 
good  enough  to  show. 

But  Romola,  who  had  the  fact  of  the  armor  in  her  mind, 
and  was  penetrated  by  this  strange  coincidence  of  things 
which  associated  Tito  with  the  idea  of  fear,  went  to  his  elbow 
and  said  — 

“  Don’t  put  it  away ;  let  me  look  again.  That  man  with 
the  rope  round  his  neck  —  I  saw  him  —  I  saw  you  come  to 
him  in  the  Duomo.  What  was  it  that  made  you  put  him  into 
a  picture  with  Tito  ?  ” 

Piero  saw  no  better  resource  than  to  tell  part  of  the  truth. 

“  It  was  a  mere  accident.  The  man  was  running  away  — 
running  up  the  steps,  and  caught  hold  of  your  husband  :  I 
suppose  he  had  stumbled.  I  happened  to  be  there,  and  saw 
it,  and  I  thought  the  savage-looking  old  fellow  was  a  good 
subject.  But  it’s  worth  nothing  —  it ’s  only  a  freakish  daub 
of  mine.”  Piero  ended  contemptuously,  moving  the  sketch 
away  with  an  air  of  decision,  and  putting  it  on  a  high  shelf. 
“  Come  and  look  at  the  Giidipus.” 

He  had  shown  a  little  too  much  anxiety  in  putting  the 


270 


ROMOLA. 


sketch  out  of  her  sight,  and  had  produced  the  very  impression 
he  had  sought  to  prevent  —  that  there  was  really  something 
unpleasant,  something  disadvantageous  to  Tito,  in  the  circum¬ 
stances  out  of  which  the  picture  arose.  But  this  impression 
silenced  her ;  her  pride  and  delicacy  shrank  from  questioning 
further,  where  questions  might  seem  to  imply  that  she  could 
entertain  even  a  slight  suspicion  against  her  husband.  She 
merely  said,  in  as  quiet  a  tone  as  she  could  — 

“  He  was  a  strange  piteous-looking  man,  that  prisoner.  Do 
you  know  anything  more  of  him  ?  ” 

“ISTo  more:  I  showed  him  the  way  to  the  hospital,  that’s 
all.  See,  now,  the  face  of  CEdipus  is  pretty  nearly  finished ; 
tell  me  what  you  think  of  it.” 

Komola  now  gave  her  whole  attention  to  her  father’s  por¬ 
trait,  standing  in  long  silence  before  it. 

“Ah,”  she  said  at  last,  “you  have  done  what  I  wanted. 
You  have  given  it  more  of  the  listening  look.  My  good 
Piero  ”  —  she  turned  toAvards  him  with  bright  moist  eyes  — 
“  1  am  very  grateful  to  you.” 

“Now  that’s  what  I  can’t  bear  in  you  women,”  said  Piero, 
turning  impatiently,  and  kicking  aside  the  objects  that  littered 
the  floor  —  “you  are  always  pouring  out  feelings  where  there’s 
no  call  for  them.  Why  should  you  be  grateful  to  me  for  a 
picture  you  pay  me  for,  especially  when  I  make  you  wait  for 
it  ?  And  if  I  paint  a  picture,  I  suppose  it ’s  for  my  own 
pleasure  and  credit  to  paint  it  well,  eh  ?  Are  you  to  thank  a 
man  for  not  being  a  rogue  or  a  noodle  ?  It ’s  enough  if  he 
himself  thanks  Messer  Domeneddio,  who  has  made  him  neither 
the  one  nor  the  other.  But  women  think  walls  are  held 
together  with  honey.” 

“You  crusty  Piero !  I  forgot  how  snappish  you  are.  Here, 
put  this  nice  sweetmeat  in  your  mouth,”  said  Eomola,  smiling 
through  her  tears,  and  taking  something  very  crisp  and  sweet 
from  the  little  basket. 

Piero  accepted  it  very  much  as  that  proverbial  bear  that 
dreams  of  pears  might  accept  an  exceedingly  mellow  “swan- 
egg  ”  —  really  liking  the  gift,  but  accustomed  to  have  his 
pleasures  and  pains  concealed  under  a  shaggy  coat. 


THE  PAINTED  RECORD. 


271 


’s  good,  Madonna  Antigone,”  said  Piero,  putting  his  fin¬ 
gers  in  the  basket  for  another.  He  had  eaten  nothing  but 
hard  eggs  for  a  fortnight.  Eomola  stood  opposite  him,  feeling 
her  new  anxiety  suspended  for  a  little  while  by  the  sight  of 
this  naive  enjoyment. 

“  Good-by,  Piero,”  she  said,  presently,  setting  down  the 
basket.  “  I  promise  not  to  thank  you  if  you  finish  the  portrait 
soon  and  well.  I  will  tell  you,  you  were  bound  to  do  it  for 
your  own  credit.” 

“  Good,”  said  Piero,  curtly,  helping  her  with  much  deftness 
to  fold  her  mantle  and  veil  round  her. 

“  I ’m  glad  she  asked  no  more  questions  about  that  sketch,” 
he  thought,  when  he  had  closed  the  door  behind  her.  ‘‘I 
should  be  sorry  for  her  to  guess  that  I  thought  her  fine  hus¬ 
band  a  good  model  for  a  coward.  But  I  made  light  of  it; 
she’ll  not  think  of  it  again.” 

Piero  was  too  sanguine,  as  open-hearted  men  are  apt  to  be 
when  they  attempt  a  little  clever  simulation.  The  thought  of 
the  picture  pressed  more  and  more  on  Romola  as  she  walked 
homeward.  She  could  not  help  putting  together  the  two  facts 
of  the  chain-armor  and  the  encounter  mentioned  by  Piero 
between  her  husband  and  the  prisoner,  which  had  happened 
on  the  morning  of  the  day  when  the  armor  was  adopted. 
That  look  of  terror  which  the  painter  had  given  Tito,  had  he 
seen  it  ?  What  could  it  all  mean  ? 

“  It  means  nothing,”  she  tried  to  assure  herself.  It  was  a 
mere  coincidence.  Shall  I  ask  Tito  about  it?”  Her  mind 
said  at  last,  ‘‘No:  I  will  not  question  him  about  anything  lie 
did  not  tell  me  spontaneously.  It  is  an  offence  against  the 
trust  I  owe  him.”  Her  heart  said,  “  I  dare  not  ask  him.” 

There  was  a  terrible  flaw  in  the  trust :  she  was  afraid  of  any 
hasty  movement,  as  men  are  who  hold  something  preciou«  and 
want  to  believe  that  it  is  not  broken. 


272 


ROMOLA. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

A  MOMENT  OF  TRIUMPH. 

‘‘  The  old  fellow  has  vanished ;  went  on  towards  Arezzo  the 
next  morning ;  not  liking  the  smell  of  the  French,  I  suppose, 
after  being  their  prisoner.  I  went  to  the  hospital  to  inquire 
after  him  ;  I  wanted  to  know  if  those  broth-making  monks 
had  found  out  whether  he  was  in  his  right  mind  or  not.  How¬ 
ever,  they  said  he  showed  no  signs  of  madness  —  only  took  no 
notice  of  questions,  and  seemed  to  be  planting  a  vine  twenty 
miles  off.  He  was  a  mysterious  old  tiger.  I  should  have  liked 
to  know  something  more  about  him.” 

It  was  in  Nello’s  shop  that  Piero  di  Cosimo  was  speaking, 
on  the  24th  of  November,  just  a  week  after  the  entrance 
of  the  French.  There  was  a  party  of  six  or  seven  assembled 
at  the  rather  unusual  hour  of  three  in  the  afternoon ;  for  it 
was  a  day  on  which  all  Florence  was  excited  by  the  prospect 
of  some  decisive  political  event.  Every  lounging-place  was 
full,  and  every  shopkeeper  who  had  no  wife  or  deputy  to 
leave  in  charge,  stood  at  his  door  with  his  thumbs  in  his  belt ; 
while  the  streets  were  constantly  sprinkled  with  artisans  paus¬ 
ing  or  passing  lazily  like  floating  splinters,  ready  to  rush  for¬ 
ward  impetuously  if  any  object  attracted  them. 

Nello  had  been  thrumming  the  lute  as  he  half  sat  on  the 
board  against  the  shop-window,  and  kept  an  outlook  towards 
the  piazza. 

“Ah,”  he  said,  laying  down  the  lute,  with  emphasis,  “I 
would  not  for  a  gold  florin  have  missed  that  sight  of  the 
French  soldiers  waddling  in  their  broad  shoes  after  their  run¬ 
away  prisoners !  That  comes  of  leaving  my  shop  to  shave 
magnificent  chins.  It  is  always  so :  if  ever  I  quit  this  navel 
of  the  earth  something  takes  the  opportunity  of  happening  in 
my  piazza.” 

“Yes,  you  ought  to  have  been  there,”  said  Piero,  in  his 


A  MOMENT  OF  TRIUMPH. 


273 


biting  way,  just  to  see  your  favorite  Greek  look  as  frightened 
as  if  Satanasso  had  laid  hold  of  him.  I  like  to  sec  your  ready- 
smiling  Messeri  caught  in  a  sudden  wind  and  obliged  to  show 
their  lining  in  spite  of  themselves.  What  color  do  you  think 
a  man’s  liver  is,  who  looks  like  a  bleached  deer  as  soon  as  a 
chance  stranger  lays  hold  of  him  suddenly  ?  ” 

“Piero,  keep  that  vinegar  of  thine  as  sauce  to  thine  own 
eggs  !  What  is  it  against  my  bel  erudito  that  he  looked 
startled  when  he  felt  a  pair  of  claws  upon  him  and  saw  an 
unchained  madman  at  his  elbow  ?  Your  scholar  is  not  like 
those  beastly  Swiss  and  Germans,  whose  heads  are  only  fit  for 
battering-rams,  and  who  have  such  large  appetites  that  they 
think  nothing  of  taking  a  cannon-ball  before  breakfast.  We 
Florentines  count  some  other  qualities  in  a  man  besides  that 
vulgar  stuff  called  bravery,  which  is  to  be  got  by  hiring  dun¬ 
derheads  at  so  much  per  dozen.  I  tell  you,  as  soon  as  men 
found  out  that  they  had  more  brains  than  oxen,  they  set  the 
oxen  to  draw  for  them ;  and  when  we  Florentines  found  out 
that  we  had  more  brains  than  other  men  we  set  them  to  fight 
for  us.” 

“Treason,  Nello  !  ”  a  voice  called  out  from  the  inner 
sanctum;  “that  is  not  the  doctrine  of  the  State.  Florence  is 
grinding  its  weapons;  and  the  last  well-authenticated  vision 
announced  by  the  Frate  was  Mars  standing  on  the  Palazzo 
Vecchio  with  his  arm  on  the  shoulder  of  San  Giovanni  Battista, 
who  was  offering  him  a  piece  of  honeycomb.” 

“It  is  well,  Francesco,”  said  Nello.  “Florence  has  a  few 
thicker  skulls  that  may  do  to  bombard  Pisa  with ;  there  will 
still  be  the  finer  spirits  left  at  home  to  do  the  thinking  and 
the  shaving.  And  as  for  our  Piero  here,  if  he  makes  such  a 
point  of  valor,  let  him  carry  his  biggest  brush  for  a  wmapon 
and  his  palette  for  a  shield,  and  challenge  the  widest-mouthed 
Swiss  he  can  see  in  the  Prato  to  a  single  combat.” 

“  Va,  Nello,”  growled  Piero,  “thy  tongue  runs  on  as  usual, 
like  a  mill  when  the  Arno’s  full  —  whether  there ’s  grist  or 
not.” 

“  Excellent  grist,  I  tell  thee.  For  it  would  be  as  reasonable 
to  expect  a  grizzled  painter  like  thee  to  be  fond  of  getting  a 

VOL.,  r.  18 


274 


ROMOLA. 


javelin  inside  thee  as  to  expect  a  man  whose  wits  have  been 
sharpened  on  the  classics  to  like  having  his  handsome  face 
clawed  by  a  wild  beast.” 

“  There  you  go,  supposing  you  ’ll  get  people  to  put  their 
legs  into  a  sack  because  you  call  it  a  pair  of  hosen/’  said  Piero. 
“  Who  said  anything  about  a  wild  beast,  or  about  an  unarmed 
man  rushing  on  battle  ?  Fighting  is  a  trade,  and  it ’s  not  my 
trade.  I  should  be  a  fool  to  run  after  danger,  but  I  could  face 
it  if  it  came  to  me.” 

“  How  is  it  you  ’re  so  afraid  of  the  thunder,  then,  my  Piero  ?  ” 
said  FTello,  determined  to  chase  down  the  accuser.  “  You  ought 
to  be  able  to  understand  why  one  man  is  shaken  by  a  thing 
that  seems  a  trifle  to  others  —  you  who  hide  yourself  with 
the  rats  as  soon  as  a  storm  comes  on.” 

That  is  because  I  have  a  particular  sensibility  to  loud 
sounds;  it  has  nothing  to  do  with  my  courage  or  my  con¬ 
science.” 

“Well,  and  Tito  Melema  may  have  a  peculiar  sensibility  to 
being  laid  hold  of  unexpectedly  by  prisoners  who  have  run 
away  from  French  soldiers.  Men  are  born  with  antipathies ; 
I  myself  can’t  abide  the  smell  of  mint.  Tito  was  born  with  an 
antipathy  to  old  prisoners  who  stumble  and  clutch.  Ecco !  ” 

There  was  a  general  laugh  at  Nello’s  defence,  and  it  was 
clear  that  Piero’s  disinclination  towards  Tito  was  not  shared 
by  the  company.  The  painter,  with  his  undecipherable  gri¬ 
mace,  took  the  tow  from  his  scarsella  and  stuffed  his  ears  in 
indignant  contempt,  while  Nello  went  on  triumphantly  — 

“No,  my  Piero,  I  can’t  afford  to  have  my  del  erudito  de¬ 
cried;  and  Florence  can’t  afford  it  either,  with  her  scholars 
moulting  off  her  at  the  early  age  of  forty.  Our  Phoenix  Pico 
just  gone  straight  to  Paradise,  as  the  Frate  has  informed  us ; 
and  the  incomparable  Poliziano,  not  two  months  since,  gone  to 
—  well,  well,  let  us  hope  he  is  not  gone  to  the  eminent 
scholars  in  the  Malebolge.” 

“By  the  way,”  said  Francesco  Cei,  “have  you  heard  that 
Camilla  Rucellai  has  outdone  the  Frate  in  her  prophecies? 
She  prophesied  two  years  ago  that  Pico  would  die  in  the  time 
of  lilies.  He  has  died  in  November.  ‘Not  at  all  the  time  of 


A  MOMENT  OF  TRIUMPH. 


27i> 


lilies.’  said  the  scorners.  ‘Go  to  ! ’  says  Camilla ;  ‘ it  is  the 
lilies  of  France  I  meant,  and  it  seems  to  me  they  are 
enough  under  your  nostrils.’  I  say,  ‘  Euge,  Camilla  !  ’  If  the 
Frate  can  prove  that  any  one  of  his  visions  has  been  as  well 
fulfilled,  I  ’ll  declare  myself  a  Piagnone  to-morrow.” 

“You  are  something  too  flippant  about  the  Frate,  Fran¬ 
cesco,”  said  Pietro  Cennini,  the  scholarly.  “  We  are  all  in¬ 
debted  to  him  in  these  weeks  for  preaching  peace  and  quiet¬ 
ness,  and  the  laying  aside  of  party  quarrels.  They  are  men 
of  small  discernment  who  would  be  glad  to  see  the  people 
slipping  the  Prate’s  leash  just  now.  And  if  the  Most  Christian 
King  is  obstinate  about  the  treaty  to-day,  and  will  not  sign 
what  is  fair  and  honorable  to  Florence,  Fra  Girolamo  is  the 
man  we  must  trust  in  to  bring  him  to  reason.” 

“You  speak  truth,  Messer  Pietro,”  said  Nello;  “the  Frate 
is  one  of  the  firmest  nails  Florence  has  to  hang  on —  at  least, 
that  is  the  opinion  of  the  most  respectable  chins  I  have  the 
honor  of  shaving.  But  young  Messer  FTiccold  was  saying  here 
the  other  morning  —  and  doubtless  Francesco  means  the  same 
thing  —  there  is  as  wonderful  a  power  of  stretching  in  the 
meaning  of  visions  as  in  Dido’s  bull’s  hide.  It  seems  to  me 
a  dream  may  mean  whatever  comes  after  it.  As  our  Franco 
Sacchetti  says,  a  woman  dreams  over-night  of  a  serpent  biting 
her,  breaks  a  drinking-cup  the  next  day,  and  cries  out,  ‘  Look 
you,  I  thought  something  would  happen  —  it’s  plain  now  what 
the  serpent  meant.’  ” 

“  But  the  Prate’s  visions  are  not  of  that  sort,”  said  Cronaca. 
“  He  not  only  says  what  will  happen  —  that  the  Church  will 
be  scourged  and  renovated,  and  the  heathens  converted  —  lie 
says  it  shall  happen  quickly.  He  is  no  slippery  pretender 
who  provides  loopholes  for  himself,  he  is  —  ” 

“What  is  this?  what  is  this?”  exclaimed  Nello,  jumping 
off  the  board,  and  putting  his  head  out  at  the  door.  “  Here 
are  people  streaming  into  the  piazza,  and  shouting.  Something 
must  have  happened  in  the  Via  Larga.  Aha  !  ”  he  burst  forth 
with  delighted  astonishment,  stepping  out  laughing  and  wav¬ 
ing  his  cap. 

All  the  rest  of  the  company  hastened  to  the  door.  News 


276 


ROMOLA. 


from  the  Via  Larga  was  just  what  they  had  been  waiting  for. 
But  if  the  news  had  come  into  the  piazza,  they  were  not  a 
little  surprised  at  the  form  of  its  advent.  Carried  above  the 
shoulders  of  the  people,  on  a  bench  apparently  snatched  up  in 
the  street,  sat  Tito  Melema,  in  smiling  amusement  at  the  com¬ 
pulsion  he  was  under.  His  cap  had  slipped  off  his  head,  and 
hung  by  the  becchetto  which  was  wound  loosely  round  his 
neck ;  and  as  he  saw  the  group  at  Hello’s  door  he  lifted  up  his 
fingers  in  beckoning  recognition.  The  next  minute  he  had 
leaped  from  the  bench  on  to  a  cart  filled  with  bales,  that  stood 
in  the  broad  space  between  the  baptistery  and  the  steps  of  the 
Duomo,  while  the  people  swarmed  round  him  with  the  noisy 
eagerness  of  poultry  expecting  to  be  fed.  But  there  was  si¬ 
lence  when  he  began  to  speak  in  his  clear  mellow  voice  — 
“Citizens  of  Florence  !  I  have  no  warrant  to  tell  the  news 
except  your  will.  But  the  news  is  good,  and  will  harm  no 
man  in  the  telling.  The  Most  Christian  King  is  signing  a 
treaty  that  is  honorable  to  Florence.  But  you  owe  it  to  one  of 
your  citizens,  who  spoke  a  word  worthy  of  the  ancient  Romans 
—  you  owe  it  to  Piero  Capponi !  ” 

Immediately  there  was  a  roar  of  voices. 

“  Capponi !  Capponi !  What  said  our  Piero  ?  ”  “  Ah  !  he 

would  n’t  stand  being  sent  from  Herod  to  Pilate  !  ”  “  We 

knew  Piero  !  ”  “  Orsu  !  Tell  us,  what  did  he  say  ?  ” 

When  the  roar  of  insistence  had  subsided  a  little,  Tito  began 
again  — 

“The  Most  Christian  King  demanded  a  little  too  much  — 
was  obstinate  —  said  at  last,  ‘  I  shall  order  my  trumpets  to 
sound.’  Then,  Florentine  citizens  !  your  Piero  Capponi,  speak¬ 
ing  with  the  voice  of  a  free  city,  said,  ‘If  you  sound  your 
trumpets,  we  will  ring  our  bells  !  ’  He  snatched  the  copy  of 
the  dishonoring  conditions  from  the  hands  of  the  secretary, 
tore  it  in  pieces,  and  turned  to  leave  the  royal  presence.” 

Again  there  were  loud  shouts  —  and  again  impatient  de¬ 
mands  for  more. 

“  Then,  Florentines,  the  high  majesty  of  France  felt,  per¬ 
il  aps  for  the  first  time,  all  the  majesty  of  a  free  city.  And 
the  Most  Christian  King  himself  hastened  from  his  place  to 


A  MOMENT  OF  TRIUMPH. 


277 


caii  Piero  Capponi  back.  The  great  spirit  of  your  Florentine 
city  did  its  work  by  a  great  word,  without  need  of  the  great 
actions  that  lay  ready  behind  it.  And  the  King  has  consented 
to  sign  the  treaty,  which  preserves  the  honor,  as  well  as  the 
safety,  of  Florence.  The  banner  of  France  will  float  over 
every  Florentine  galley  in  sign  of  amity  and  common  privilege, 
but  above  that  banner  will  be  written  the  word  ‘Liberty  !  ’ 

“  That  is  all  the  news  I  have  to  tell ;  is  it  not  enough  ?  — 
since  it  is  for  the  glory  of  every  one  of  you,  citizens  of  Flor- 
ence,  that  you  have  a  fellow-citizen  who  knows  how  to  speak 
your  will.” 

As  the  shouts  rose  again,  Tito  looked  round  with  inward 
amusement  at  the  various  crowd,  each  of  whom  was  elated 
with  the  notion  that  Piero  Capponi  had  somehow  represented 
him  —  that  he  was  the  mind  of  which  Capponi  was  the  mouth¬ 
piece.  He  enjoyed  the  humor  of  the  incident,  which  had  sud¬ 
denly  transformed  him,  an  alien,  and  a  friend  of  the  Medici, 
into  an  orator  who  tickled  the  ears  of  the  people  blatant  for 
some  unknown  good  which  they  called  liberty.  He  felt  quite 
glad  that  he  had  been  laid  hold  of  and  hurried  along  by  the 
crowd  as  he  was  coming  out  of  the  palace  in  the  Via  Larga 
with  a  commission  to  the  Signoria.  It  was  very  easy,  very 
pleasant,  this  exercise  of  speaking  to  the  general  satisfaction  : 
a  man  who  knew  how  to  persuade  need  never  be  in  danger 
from  any  party  ;  he  could  convince  each  that  he  was  feigning 
with  all  the  others.  The  gestures  and  faces  of  weavers  and 
dyers  were  eertainly  amusing  when  looked  at  from  above  in 
this  way. 

Tito  was  beginning  to  get  easier  in  his  armor,  and  at  this 
moment  was  quite  unconscious  of  it.  He  stood  with  one  hand 
holding  his  recovered  cap,  and  with  the  other  at  his  belt,  the 
light  of  a  complacent  smile  in  his  long  lustrous  eyes,  as  he 
made  a  parting  reverence  to  his  audience,  before  springing 
down  from  the  bales  —  when  suddenly  his  glance  met  that  of 
a  man  who  had  not  at  all  the  amusing  aspect  of  the  exulting 
tveavers,  dyers,  and  wool-carders.  The  face  of  this  man  wa^ 
clean-shaven,  his  hair  close-clipped,  and  he  wore  a  decent  fell 
hat.  A  single  glance  n  ould  hardly  have  sufficed  to  assure  anj 


278 


ROMOLA. 


one  but  Tito  that  this  was  the  face  of  the  escaped  prisoner 
who  had  laid  hold  of  him  on  the  steps.  But  to  Tito  it  came 
not  simply  as  the  face  of  the  escaped  prisoner,  but  as  a  face 
with  which  he  had  been  familiar  long  years  before. 

It  seemed  all  compressed  into  a  second  —  the  sight  of  Bal- 
dassarre  looking  at  him,  the  sensation  shooting  through  him 
like  a  fiery  arrow,  and  the  act  of  leaping  from  the  cart.  He 
would  have  leaped  down  in  the  same  instant,  whether  he  had 
seen  Baldassarre  or  not,  for  he  was  in  a  hurry  to  be  gone  to  the 
Palazzo  Vecchio :  this  time  he  had  not  betrayed  himself  by 
’ook  or  movement,  and  he  said  inwardly  that  he  should  not 
oe  taken  by  surprise  again  ;  he  should  be  prepared  to  see  this 
face  rise  up  continually  like  the  intermittent  blotch  that 
comes  in  diseased  vision.  But  this  reappearance  of  Baldas¬ 
sarre  so  much  more  in  his  own  likeness  tightened  the  pressure 
of  dread  :  the  idea  of  his  madness  lost  its  likelihood  now  he 
was  shaven  and  clad  like  a  decent  though  poor  citizen.  Cer¬ 
tainly,  there  was  a  great  change  in  his  face  ;  but  how  could  it 
be  otherwise  ?  And  yet,  if  he  were  perfectly  sane  —  in  pos¬ 
session  of  all  his  powers  and  all  his  learning,  why  was  he 
lingering  in  this  way  before  making  known  his  identity  ?  It 
must  be  for  the  sake  of  making  his  scheme  of  vengeance  more 
complete.  But  he  did  linger :  that  at  least  gave  an.  oppor¬ 
tunity  for  flight.  And  Tito  began  to  think  that  flight  was  his 
only  resource. 

But  while  he,  with  his  back  turned  on  the  Piazza  del  Duomo, 
had  lost  the  recollection  of  the  new  part  he  had  been  playing, 
and  was  no  longer  thinking  of  the  many  things  which  a  ready 
brain  and  tongue  made  easy,  but  of  a  few  things  which  destiny 
had  somehow  made  very  difficult,  the  enthusiasm  which  he 
had  fed  contemptuously  was  creating  a  scene  in  that  piazza  in 
grand  contrast  with  the  inward  drama  of  self-centred  fear 
which  he  had  carried  away  from  it. 

The  crowd,  on  Tito’s  disappearance,  had  begun  to  turn  their 
faces  towards  the  outlets  of  the  piazza  in  the  direction  of  the 
Via  Larga,  when  the  sight  of  mazzieri,  or  mace-bearers,  enter¬ 
ing  from  the  Via  de’  Martelli,  announced  the  approach  of 
dignitaries.  They  must  be  the  syndics,  or  commissioners 


THE  AVENGER’S  SECRET. 


279 


charged  with  the  effecting  of  the  treaty ;  the  treaty  must  be 
already  signed,  and  they  had  come  away  from  the  royal  pres¬ 
ence.  Piero  Capponi  was  coming  —  the  brave  heart  tliat  had 
known  how  to  speak  for  Florence.  The  effect  on  the  crowd 
was  remarkable ;  they  parted  with  softening,  dropping  voices, 
subsiding  into  silence,  —  and  the  silence  became  so  perfect 
that  the  tread  of  the  syndics  on  the  broad  pavement,  and  the 
rustle  of  their  black  silk  garments,  could  be  heard,  like  rain 
in  the  night.  There  were  four  of  them  ;  but  it  was  not  the 
two  learned  doctors  of  law,  Messer  Guidantonio  Vespucci  and 
Messer  Domenico  Bonsi,  that  the  crowd  waited  for ;  it  was 
not  Francesco  Valori,  popular  as  he  had  become  in  these  late 
days.  The  moment  belonged  to  another  man,  of  firm  presence, 
as  little  inclined  to  humor  the  people  as  to  humor  any  other 
unreasonable  claimants — loving  order,  like  one  who  by  force 
of  fortune  had  been  made  a  merchant,  and  by  force  of  nature 
had  become  a  soldier.  It  was  not  till  he  was  seen  at  the  en¬ 
trance  of  the  piazza  that  the  silence  was  broken,  and  then  one 
loud  shout  of  ^‘Capponi,  Capponi!  Well  done,  Capponi!” 
rang  through  the  piazza. 

The  simple,  resolute  man  looked  round  him  with  grave  joy. 
His  fellow-citizens  gave  him  a  great  funeral  two  years  later, 
when  he  had  died  in  fight ;  there  were  torches  carried  by  all 
the  magistracy,  and  torches  again,  and  trains  of  banners.  But 
it  is  not  known  that  he  felt  any  joy  in  the  oration  that  was 
delivered  in  his  praise,  as  the  banners  waved  over  his  bier. 
Let  us  be  glad  that  he  got  some  thanks  and  praise  while  he 
lived. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

THE  avenger’s  SECRET. 

It  was  the  first  time  that  Bahlassarre  had  been  in  the  Piazza 
del  Duomo  since  his  escape.  He  had  a  strong  desire  to  hea-r 
the  remarkable  monk  preacli  again,  but  he  had  shrunk  from 


280 


ROMOLA. 


reappearing  in  the  same  spot  where  he  had  been  seen  half 
naked,  with  neglected  hair,  with  a  rope  round  his  neck  —  in 
the  same  spot  where  he  had  been  called  a  madman.  The 
feeling,  in  its  freshness,  was  too  strong  to  be  overcome  by  any 
trust  he  had  in  the  change  he  had  made  in  his  appearance ; 
for  when  the  words  “some  madman,  s^irely,”  had  fallen  from 
Tito’s  lips,  it  was  not  their  baseness  and  cruelty  only  that  had 
made  their  viper  sting  —  it  was  Baldassarre’s  instantaneous 
bitter  consciousness  that  he  might  be  unable  to  prove  the 
words  false.  Along  with  the  passionate  desire  for  vengeance 
which  possessed  him  had  arisen  the  keen  sense  that  his  power 
of  achieving  the  vengeance  was  doubtful.  It  was  as  if  Tito 
had  been  helped  by  some  diabolical  prompter,  who  had  whis¬ 
pered  Baldassarre’s  saddest  secret  in  the  traitor’s  ear.  He 
was  not  mad  ;  for  he  carried  within  him  that  piteous  stamp 
of  sanity,  the  clear  consciousness  of  siiattered  faculties  ;  he 
measured  his  own  feebleness.  With  the  first  movement  of 
vindictive  rage  awoke  a  vague  caution,  like  that  of  a  wild 
beast  that  is  fierce  but  feeble  —  or  like  that  of  an  insect  whose 
little  fragment  of  earth  has  given  way,  and  made  it  pause  in 
a  palsy  of  distrust.  It  was  this  distrust,  this  determination 
to  take  no  step  which  might  betray  anything  concerning  him¬ 
self,  that  had  made  Baldassarre  reject  Piero  di  Cosimo’s 
friendly  advances. 

He  had  been  equally  cautious  at  the  hospital,  only  telling,  in 
answer  to  the  questions  of  the  brethren  there,  that  he  had  been 
made  a  prisoner  by  the  French  on  his  way  from  Genoa.  But 
his  age,  and  the  indications  in  his  speech  and  manner  that  he 
was  of  a  different  class  from  the  ordinary  mendicants  and  poor 
travellers  who  were  entertained  in  the  hospital,  had  induced 
the  monks  to  offer  him  extra  charity :  a  coarse  woollen  tunic 
to  protect  him  from  the  cold,  a  pair  of  peasant’s  shoes,  and  a 
few  danari,  smallest  of  Florentine  coins,  to  help  him  on  his 
way.  He  had  gone  on  the  road  to  Arezzo  early  in  the  morning; 
but  he  had  paused  at  the  first  little  town,  and  had  used  a  couple 
of  his  danari  to  get  himself  shaved,  and  to  have  his  circle  of 
hair  clipped  short,  in  his  former  fashion.  The  barber  there 
had  a  little  hand-mirror  of  bright  steel ;  it  was  a  long  while, 


THE  AVENGER’S  SECRET. 


281 


it  was  years,  since  Baldassarre  had  looked  at  himself,  and 
now,  as  his  eyes  fell  on  that  hand-mirror,  a  new  thought  shot 
through  his  mind.  ‘‘Was  he  so  changed  that  Tito  really  did 
not  know  him  ?  ”  The  thought  was  such  a  sudden  arrest  of 
impetuous  currents,  that  it  was  a  painful  shock  to  him  ;  his 
hand  shook  like  a  leaf,  as  he  put  away  the  barber’s  arm  and 
asked  for  the  mirror.  He  wished  to  see  himself  before  he 
was  shaved.  The  barber,  noticing  his  tremulousness,  held 
the  mirror  for  him. 

No,  he  was  not  so  changed  as  that.  He  himself  had  known 
the  wrinkles  as  they  had  been  three  years  ago;  they  were  only 
deeper  now:  there  was  the  same  rough,  clumsy  skin,  making 
little  superficial  bosses  on  the  brow,  like  so  many  cipher-marks ; 
the  skin  was  only  yellower,  only  looked  more  like  a  lifeless  rind. 
That  shaggy  white  beard  —  it  was  no  disguise  to  eyes  that  had 
looked  closely  at  him  for  sixteen  years  —  to  eyes  that  ought 
to  have  searched  for  him  with  the  expectation  of  finding  him 
changed,  as  men  search  for  the  beloved  among  the  bodies  cast 
up  by  the  waters.  There  was  something  different  in  his  glance, 
but  it  was  a  difference  that  should  only  have  made  the  recog¬ 
nition  of  him  the  more  startling  ;  for  is  not  a  known  voice 
all  the  more  thrilling  when  it  is  heard  as  a  cry  ?  But  the  doubt 
was  folly :  he  had  felt  that  Tito  knew  him.  He  put  out  his 
hand  and  pushed  the  mirror  away.  The  strong  currents  were 
rushing  on  again,  and  the  energies  of  hatred  and  vengeance 
were  active  once  more. 

He  went  back  on  the  way  towards  Florence  again,  but  he 
did  not  wish  to  enter  the  city  till  dusk ;  so  he  turned  aside 
from  the  highroad,  and  sat  down  by  a  little  pool  shadowed  on 
one  side  by  alder-bushes  still  sprinkled  with  yellow  leaves.  It 
was  a  calm  November  day,  and  he  no  sooner  saw  the  pool  than 
he  thought  its  still  surface  might  be  a  mirror  for  him.  He 
wanted  to  contemplate  himself  slowly,  as  he  had  not  dared  to 
do  in  the  presence  of  the  barber.  He  sat  down  on  the  edge  of 
the  pool,  and  bent  forward  to  look  earnestly  at  the  image  of 
himself. 

Was  there  something  wandering  and  imbecile  in  his  face-— 
something  like  what  he  felt  in  his  mind  ? 


282 


ROMOLA. 


Not  now ;  not  when  he  was  examining  himself  with  a  look 
of  eager  inquiry :  on  the  contrary,  there  was  an  intense  pur¬ 
pose  in  his  eyes.  But  at  other  times?  Yes,  it  must  be  so. 
in  the  long  hours  when  he  had  the  vague  aching  of  an  unre- 
mcmbered  past  within  him  —  when  he  seemed  to  sit  in  dark 
loneliness,  visited  by  whispers  which  died  out  mockingly  as 
he  strained  his  ear  after  them,  and  by  forms  that  seemed  to 
approach  him  and  float  away  as  he  thrust  out  his  hand  to 
grasp  them  —  in  those  hours,  doubtless,  there  must  be  con¬ 
tinual  frustration  and  amazement  in  his  glance.  And  more 
horrible  still,  when  the  thick  cloud  parted  for  a  moment,  and, 
as  he  sprang  forward  with  hope,  rolled  together  again,  and 
left  him  helpless  as  before ;  doubtless,  there  was  then  a  blank 
confusion  in  his  face,  as  of  a  man  suddenly  smitten  with 
blindness. 

Could  he  prove  anything  ?  Could  he  even  begin  to  allege 
anything,  with  the  confldence  that  the  links  of  thought  would 
not  break  away  ?  Would  any  believe  that  he  had  ever  had  a 
mind  filled  with  rare  knowledge,  busy  with  close  thoughts, 
ready  with  various  speech?  It  had  all  slipped  away  from 
him  —  that  laboriously  gathered  store.  Was  it  utterly  and  for¬ 
ever  gone  from  him,  like  the  waters  from  an  urn  lost  in  the 
wide  ocean  ?  Or,  was  it  still  within  him,  imprisoned  by  some 
obstruction  that  might  one  day  break  asunder  ? 

It  might  be  so ;  he  tried  to  keep  his  grasp  on  that  hope. 
For,  since  the  day  when  he  had  first  walked  feebly  from  his 
couch  of  straw,  and  had  felt  a  new  darkness  within  him  under 
the  sunlight,  his  mind  had  undergone  changes,  partly  gradual 
and  persistent,  partly  sudden  and  fleeting.  As  he  had  recov¬ 
ered  his  strength  of  body,  he  had  recovered  his  self-command 
and  the  energy  of  his  will ;  he  had  recovered  the  memory  of 
all  that  part  of  his  life  which  was  closely  enwrought  with  his 
emotions ;  and  he  had  felt  more  and  more  constantly  and  pain¬ 
fully  the  uneasy  sense  of  lost  knowledge.  But  more  than  that 
—  once  or  twice,  when  he  had  been  strongly  excited,  he  had 
seemed  momentarily  to  be  in  entire  possession  of  his  past  self, 
as  old  men  doze  for  an  instant  and  get  back  the  consciousness 
of  their  youth  -•  he  seemed  again  to  see  Greek  pages  and  under- 


THE  AVENGER’S  SECRET. 


283 


stand  them,  again  to  feel  his  mind  moving  unbenumbed  among 
familiar  ideas.  It  had  been  but  a  flash,  and  the  darkness 
closing  in  again  seemed  the  more  horrible ;  but  might  not  the 
same  thing  happen  again  for  longer  periods  ?  If  it  would 
only  come  and  stay  long  enough  for  him  to  achieve  a  revenge 
—  devise  an  exquisite  suffering,  such  as  a  mere  right  arm  could 
never  inflict ! 

He  raised  himself  from  his  stooping  attitude,  and,  folding 
his  arms,  attempted  to  concentrate  all  his  mental  force  on  the 
plan  he  must  immediately  pursue.  He  had  to  wait  for  knowl¬ 
edge  and  opportunity,  and  while  he  waited  he  must  have  the 
means  of  living  without  beggary.  What  he  dreaded  of  all 
things  now  was,  that  any  one  should  think  him  a  foolish,  help¬ 
less  old  man.  No  one  must  know  that  half  his  memory  was 
gone :  the  lost  strength  might  come  again ;  and  if  it  were  only 
for  a  little  while,  that  might  be  enough. 

He  knew  how  to  begin  to  get  the  information  he  wanted 
about  Tito.  He  had  repeated  the  words  ‘‘Bratti  Ferravecchi” 
so  constantly  after  they  had  been  uttered  to  him,  that  they 
never  slipped  from  him  for  long  together.  A  man  at  Genoa, 
on  whose  Anger  he  had  seen  Tito’s  ring,  had  told  him  that  he 
bought  that  ring  at  Florence,  of  a  young  Greek,  well  dressed, 
and  with  a  handsome  dark  face,  in  the  shop  of  a  rigattiere 
called  Bratti  Ferravecchi,  in  the  street  also  called  Ferravecchi, 
This  discovery  had  caused  a  violent  agitation  in  Baldassarre. 
Until  then  he  had  clung  with  all  the  tenacity  of  his  fervent 
nature  to  his  faith  in  Tito,  and  had  not  for  a  moment  believed 
himself  to  be  wilfully  forsaken.  At  first  he  had  said,  ‘‘My 
bit  of  parchment  has  never  reached  him ;  that  is  why  I  am 
still  toiling  at  Antioch.  But  he  is  searching ;  he  knows  where 
I  was  lost :  he  will  trace  me  out,  and  find  me  at  last.”  Then, 
when  he  was  taken  to  Corinth,  he  induced  his  owners,  by  the 
assurance  that  he  should  be  sought  out  and  ransomed,  to  pro¬ 
vide  securely  against  the  failure  of  any  inquiries  that  might 
be  made  about  him  at  Antioch ;  and  at  Corinth  he  thought 
joyfully,  “  Here,  at  last,  he  must  find  me.  Here  he  is  sure  to 
touch,  whichever  way  he  goes.”  But  before  another  year  had 
passed,  the  illness  had  come  from  which  he  had  risen  with 


284 


ROMOLA. 


body  and  mind  so  shattered  that  he  was  worse  than  worthless 
to  his  owners,  except  for  the  sake  of  the  ransom  that  did  not 
come.  Then,  as  he  sat  helpless  in  the  morning  sunlight,  he 
began  to  think,  “  Tito  has  been  drowned,  or  they  have  made 
him  a  prisoner  too.  I  shall  see  him  no  more.  He  set  out 
after  me,  but  misfortune  overtook  him.  I  shall  see  his  face 
no  more.”  Sitting  in  his  new  feebleness  and  despair,  support¬ 
ing  his  head  between  his  hands,  with  blank  eyes  and  lips  that 
moved  uncertainly,  he  looked  so  much  like  a  hopelessly  im¬ 
becile  old  man,  that  his  owners  were  contented  to  be  rid  of 
him,  and  allowed  a  Genoese  merchant,  who  had  compassion 
on  him  as  an  Italian,  to  take  him  on  board  his  galley.  In  a 
voyage  of  many  months  in  the  Archipelago  and  along  the  sea¬ 
board  of  Asia  Minor,  Baldassarre  had  recovered  his  bodily 
strength,  but  on  landing  at  Genoa  he  had  so  weary  a  sense  of 
his  desolateness  that  he  almost  wished  he  had  died  of  that  ill¬ 
ness  at  Corinth.  There  was  just  one  possibility  that  hindered 
the  wish  from  being  decided :  it  was  that  Tito  might  not  be 
dead,  but  living  in  a  state  of  imprisonment  or  destitution  ;  and 
if  he  lived,  there  was  still  a  hope  for  Baldassarre  —  faint,  per¬ 
haps,  and  likely  to  be  long  deferred,  but  still  a  hope,  that  he 
might  find  his  child,  his  cherished  son  again ;  might  yet  again 
clasp  hands  and  meet  face  to  face  with  the  one  being  who 
remembered  him  as  he  had  been  before  his  mind  was  broken. 

In  this  state  of  feeling  he  had  chanced  to  meet  the  stranger 
who  wore  Tito’s  onyx  ring,  and  though  Baldassarre  would  have 
been  unable  to  describe  the  ring  beforehand,  the  sight  of  it 
stirred  the  dormant  fibres,  and  he  recognized  it.  That  Tito 
nearly  a  year  after  his  father  had  been  parted  from  him  should 
have  been  living  in  apparent  prosperity  at  Florence,  selling 
the  gem  which  he  ought  not  to  have  sold  till  the  last  extrem¬ 
ity,  was  a  fact  that  Baldassarre  shrank  from  trying  to  account 
for :  he  was  glad  to  be  stunned  and  bewildered  by  it,  rather 
than  to  have  any  distinct  thought ;  he  tried  to  feel  nothing 
but  joy  that  he  should  behold  Tito  again.  Perhaps  Tito  had 
thought  that  his  father  was  dead ;  somehow  the  mystery 
would  be  explained.  “But  at  least  I  shall  meet  eyes  that  will 
remember  me.  I  am  not  alone  in  the  world.” 


THE  AVENGER’S  SECRET. 


285 


And  now  again  Baldassarre  said,  am  not  alone  in  the 
world  ;  I  shall  never  be  alone,  for  my  revenge  is  with  me.” 

It  was  as  the  instrument  of  that  revenge,  as  something 
merely  external  and  subservient  to  his  true  life,  that  he  bent 
down  again  to  examine  himself  with  hard  curiosity  —  not,  he 
thought,  because  he  had  any  care  for  a  withered,  forsaken  old 
man,  whom  nobody  loved,  whose  soul  was  like  a  deserted 
home,  where  the  ashes  were  cold  upon  the  hearth,  and  the 
walls  were  bare  of  all  but  the  marks  of  what  had  been.  It  is 
in  the  nature  of  all  human  passion,  the  lowest  as  well  as  the 
highest,  that  there  is  a  point  where  it  ceases  to  be  properly 
egoistic,  and  is  like  a  fire  kindled  within  our  being  to  which 
everything  else  in  us  is  mere  fuel. 

He  looked  at  the  pale  black-browed  image  in  the  water  till 
he  identified  it  with  that  self  from  which  his  revenge  seemed 

to  be  a  thing  apart ;  and  he  felt  as  if  the  image  too  heard  the 

silent  language  of  his  thought. 

‘‘  I  was  a  loving  fool  —  I  worshipped  a  woman  once,  and 
believed  she  could  care  for  me;  and  then  I  took  a  helpless 
child  and  fostered  him  ;  and  I  watched  him  as  he  grew,  to  see 
if  he  would  care  for  me  only  a  little  —  care  for  me  over  and 
above  the  good  he  got  from  me.  I  would  have  torn  open  my 
breast  to  warm  him  with  my  life-blood  if  I  could  only  have 
seen  him  care  a  little  for  the  pain  of  my  wound.  I  have 
labored,  I  have  strained  to  crush  out  of  this  hard  life  one  drop 
of  unselfish  love.  Fool !  men  love  their  own  delights ;  there 

is  no  delight  to  be  had  in  me.  And  yet  I  watched  till  I 

believed  I  saw  what  I  watched  for.  When  he  was  a  child  he 
lifted  soft  eyes  towards  me,  and  held  my  hand  willingly :  I 
thought,  this  boy  will  surely  love  me  a  little  :  because  I  give 
my  life  to  him  and  strive  that  he  shall  know  no  sorrow,  he 
will  care  a  little  when  I  am  thirsty  —  the  drop  he  lays  on  my 
parched  lips  will  be  a  joy  to  him.  .  .  .  Curses  on  him  !  I  wish 
I  may  see  him  lie  with  those  red  lips  white  and  dry  as  ashes, 
and  when  he  looks  for  pity  I  wish  he  may  see  my  face  re¬ 
joicing  in  his  pain.  It  is  all  a  lie  —  this  world  is  a  lie  —  there 
IS  no  goodness  but  in  hate.  Fool !  not  one  drop  of  love  came 
'vith  all  your  striving  :  life  has  not  given  you  one  drop.  But 


286 


ROMOLA. 


there  are  deep  draughts  in  this  world  for  hatred  and  revenge. 

I  have  memory  left  for  that,  and  there  is  strength  in  my  arm 
—  there  is  strength  in  my  will  —  and  if  I  can  do  nothing  but 
kill  him  —  » 

But  Baldassarre’s  mind  rejected  the  thought  of  that  brief  • 
punishment.  His  whole  soul  had  been  thrilled  into  immediate 
unreasoning  belief  in  that  eternity  of  vengeance  where  he,  an 
undying  hate,  might  clutch  forever  an  undying  traitor,  and 
hear  that  fair  smiling  hardness  cry  and  moan  with  anguish. 
But  the  primary  need  and  hope  was  to  see  a  slow  revenge 
under  the  same  sky  and  on  the  same  earth  where  he  himself 
had  been  forsaken  and  had  fainted  with  despair.  And  as  soon 
as  he  tried  to  concentrate  his  mind  on  the  means  of  attaining 
his  end,  the  sense  of  his  weakness  pressed  upon  him  like  a 
frosty  ache.  This  despised  body,  which  was  to  be  the  instru¬ 
ment  of  a  sublime  vengeance,  must  be  nourished  and  decently 
clad.  If  he  had  to  wait  he  must  labor,  and  his  labor  must  be 
of  a  humble  sort,  for  he  had  no  skill.  He  wondered  whether 
the  sight  of  written  characters  would  so  stimulate  his  facul¬ 
ties  that  he  might  venture  to  try  and  find  work  as  a  copyist  : 
that  might  win  him  some  credence  for  his  past  scholarship. 
But  no  !  he  dared  trust  neither  hand  nor  brain.  He  must 
be  content  to  do  the  work  that  was  most  like  that  of  a 
beast  of  burden :  in  this  mercantile  city  many  porters  must 
be  wanted,  and  he  could  at  least  carry  weights.  Thanks  to 
the  justice  that  struggled  in  this  confused  world  in  behalf 
of  vengeance,  his  limbs  had  got  back  some  of  their  old  stur¬ 
diness.  He  was  stripped  of  all  else  that  men  would  give 
coin  for. 

But  the  new  urgency  of  this  habitual  thought  brought  a  new 
suggestion.  There  was  something  hanging  by  a  cord  round 
his  bare  neck ;  something  apparently  so  paltry  that  the  piety 
of  Turks  and  Frenchmen  had  spared  it  —  a  tiny  parchment  bag 
blackened  with  age.  It  had  hung  round  his  neck  as  a  precious 
charm  when  he  was  a  boy,  and  he  had  kept  it  carefully  on  his 
breast,  not  believing  that  it  contained  anything  but  a  tiny 
scroll  of  parchment  rolled  up  hard.  He  might  long  ago  have 
thrown  it  away  as  a  relic  of  his  dead  mother’s  superstition ; 


THE  AVENGER’S  SECRET. 


287 


but  he  had  thought  of  it  as  a  relic  of  her  love,  and  had  kept  it 
It  was  part  of  the  piety  associated  with  such  brevi,  that  they 
should  never  be  opened,  and  at  any  previous  moment  in  his 
life  Baldassarre  would  have  said  that  no  sort  of  thirst  would 
prevail  upon  him  to  open  this  little  bag  for  the  chance  of  find¬ 
ing  that  it  contained,  not  parchment,  but  an  engraved  amulet 
which  would  be  worth  money.  But  now  a  thirst  had  come 
like  that  which  makes  men  open  their  own  veins  to  satisfy 
it,  and  the  thought  of  the  possible  amulet  no  sooner  crossed 
Baldassarre’s  mind  than  with  nervous  fingers  he  snatched  the 
breve  from  his  neck.  It  all  rushed  through  his  mind  —  the 
long  years  he  had  worn  it,  the  far-off  sunny  balcony  at  Naples 
looking  towards  the  blue  waters,  where  he  had  leaned  against 
his  mother’s  knee ;  but  it  made  no  moment  of  hesitation :  all 
piety  now  was  transmuted  into  a  just  revenge.  He  bit  and 
tore  till  the  doubles  of  parchment  were  laid  open,  and  then  — 
it  was  a  sight  that  made  him  pant  —  there  was  an  amulet.  It 
was  very  small,  but  it  was  as  blue  as  those  far-off  waters ;  it 
was  an  engraved  sapphire,  which  must  be  worth  some  gold 
ducats.  Baldassarre  no  sooner  saw  those  possible  ducats  than 
he  saw  some  of  them  exchanged  for  a  poniard.  He  did  not 
want  to  use  the  poniard  yet,  but  he  longed  to  possess  it.  If 
he  could  grasp  its  handle  and  try  its  edge,  that  blank  in  his 
mind  —  that  past  which  fell  away  continually — would  not 
make  him  feel  so  cruelly  helpless :  the  sharp  steel  that  de¬ 
spised  talents  and  eluded  strength  would  be  at  his  side,  as 
the  unfailing  friend  of  feeble  justice.  There  was  a  sparkling 
triumph  under  Baldassarre’s  black  eyebrows  as  he  replaced 
the  little  sapphire  inside  the  bits  of  parchment  and  wound  the 
string  tightly  round  them. 

It  was  nearly  dusk  now,  and  he  rose  to  walk  back  towards 
Florence.  With  his  danari  to  buy  him  some  bread,  he  felt 
rich :  he  could  lie  out  in  the  open  air,  as  he  found  plenty  more 
doing  in  all  corners  of  Florence.  And  in  the  next  few  days 
be  had  sold  his  sapphire,  had  added  to  his  clothing,  had 
bought  a  bright  dagger,  and  had  still  a  pair  of  gold  florins 
left.  But  he  meant  to  hoard  that  treasure  carefully  :  his  lodg¬ 
ing  was  an  outhouse  with  a  heap  of  straw  in  it,  in  a  thinly 


288  ROMOLA. 

inhabited  part  of  Oltrarno,  and  he  thought  of  looking  about 
for  work  as  a  porter. 

He  had  bought  his  dagger  at  Bratti’s.  Paying  his  medi¬ 
tated  visit  there  one  evening  at  dusk,  he  had  found  that 
singular  rag-merchant  just  returned  from  one  of  his  rounds, 
emptying  out  his  basketful  of  broken  glass  and  old  iron 
among  his  handsome  show  of  miscellaneous  second-hand 
goods.  As  Baldassarre  entered  the  shop,  and  looked  towards 
the  smart  pieces  of  apparel,  the  musical  instruments,  and 
weapons,  which  were  displayed  in  the  broadest  light  of  the 
window,  his  eye  at  once  singled  out  a  dagger  hanging  up  high 
against  a  red  scarf.  By  buying  the  dagger  he  could  not  only 
satisfy  a  strong  desire,  he  could  open  his  original  errand  in  a 
more  indirect  manner  than  by  speaking  of  the  onyx  ring.  In 
the  course  of  bargaining  for  the  weapon,  he  let  drop,  with  cau¬ 
tious  carelessness,  that  he  came  from  Genoa,  and  had  been 
directed  to  Bratti’s  shop  by  an  acquaintance  in  that  city  who 
had  bought  a  very  valuable  ring  here.  Had  the  respectable 
trader  any  more  such  rings  ? 

Whereupon  Bratti  had  much  to  say  as  to  the  unlikelihood 
of  such  rings  being  within  reach  of  many  people,  with  much 
vaunting  of  his  own  rare  connections,  due  to  his  known  wis¬ 
dom  and  honesty.  It  might  be  true  that  he  was  a  pedler  — 
he  chose  to  be  a  pedler :  though  he  was  rich  enough  to  kick 
his  heels  in  his  shop  all  day.  But  those  who  thought  they 
had  said  all  there  was  to  be  said  about  Bratti  when  they  had 
called  him  a  pedler,  were  a  good  deal  further  off  the  truth 
than  the  other  side  of  Pisa.  How  was  it  that  he  could  put  that 
ring  in  a  stranger’s  way  ?  It  was,  because  he  had  a  very  par¬ 
ticular  knowledge  of  a  handsome  young  signor,  who  did  not 
look  quite  so  fine  a  feathered  bird  when  Bratti  first  set  eyes 
on  him  as  he  did  at  the  present  time.  And  by  a  question  or 
two  Baldassarre  extracted,  without  any  trouble,  such  a  rough 
and  rambling  account  of  Tito’s  life  as  the  pedler  could  give, 
since  the  time  when  he  had  found  him  sleeping  under  the 
Loggia  de’  Cerchi,  It  never  occurred  to  Bratti  that  the  de¬ 
cent  man  (who  was  rather  deaf,  apparently,  asking  him  to 
say  many  things  twice  over)  had  any  curiosity  about  Tito ;  the 


THE  AVENGER’S  SECRET. 


289 


ciTn'osity  was  doubtless  about  himself;  as  a  truly  remarkable 
pedler. 

And  Baldassarre  left  Bratti’s  shop,  not  only  with  the  dagger 
at  his  side,  but  also  with  a  general  knowledge  of  Tito’s  con¬ 
duct  and  position  —  of  his  early  sale  of  the  jewels,  his  imme¬ 
diate  quiet  settlement  of  himself  at  Florence,  his  marriage, 
and  his  great  prosperity. 

“  What  story  had  he  told  about  his  previous  life  —  about 
his  father  ?  ” 

It  would  be  difficult  for  Baldassarre  to  discover  the  answer 
to  that  question.  Meanwhile,  he  wanted  to  learn  all  he  could 
about  Florence.  But  he  found,  to  his  acute  distress,  that  of 
the  new  details  he  learned  he  could  only  retain  a  few,  and 
those  only  by  continual  repetition  ;  and  he  began  to  be  afraid 
of  listening  to  any  new  discourse,  lest  it  should  obliterate 
what  he  was  already  striving  to  remember. 

The  day  he  was  discerned  by  Tito  in  the  Piazza  del  Duomo, 
he  had  the  fresh  anguish  of  this  consciousness  in  his  mind, 
and  Tito’s  ready  speech  fell  upon  him  like  the  mockery  of  a 
glib,  defying  demon. 

As  he  went  home  to  his  heap  of  straw,  and  passed  by  the 
booksellers’  shops  in  the  Via  del  Garbo,  he  paused  to  look  at 
the  volumes  spread  open.  Could  he  by  long  gazing  at  one  of 
those  books  lay  hold  of  the  slippery  threads  of  memory  ? 
Could  he,  by  striving,  get  a  firm  grasp  somewhere,  and  lift 
himself  above  these  waters  that  flowed  over  him  ? 

He  was  tempted,  and  bought  the  cheapest  Greek  book  he 
could  see.  He  carried  it  home  and  sat  on  his  heap  of  straw, 
looking  at  the  characters  by  the  light  of  the  small  window ; 
but  no  inward  light  arose  on  them.  Soon  the  evening  dark¬ 
ness  came;  but  it  made  little  difference  to  Baldassarre.  Hi.s 
strained  eyes  seemed  still  to  see  the  white  pages  with  the 
unintelligible  black  marks  upon  them. 


VOL.  V. 


19 


290 


ROMOLA- 


CHAPTER  XXXL 

FRUIT  IS  SEED. 

«  My  Eomola,”  said  Tito,  the  second  morning  after  he  had 
made  his  speech  in  the  Piazza  del  Duomo,  “  I  am  to  receive 
grand  visitors  to-day ;  the  Milanese  Count  is  coming  again, 
and  the  Seneschal  de  Beaucaire,  the  great  favorite  of  the 
Cristianissimo.  I  know  you  don’t  care  to  go  through  smiling 
ceremonies  with  these  rustling  magnates,  whom  we  are  not 
likely  to  see  again  ;  and  as  they  will  want  to  look  at  the 
antiquities  and  the  library,  perhaps  you  had  better  give  up 
your  work  to-day,  and  go  to  see  your  cousin  Brigida.” 

Eomola  discerned  a  wish  in  this  intimation,  and  imme¬ 
diately  assented.  But  presently,  coming  back  in  her  hood 
and  mantle,  she  said,  ‘‘  Oh,  what  a  long  breath  Florence  will 
take  when  the  gates  are  flung  open,  and  the  last  Frenchman 
is  walking  out  of  them !  Even  you  are  getting  tired,  with  all 
your  patience,  my  Tito ;  confess  it.  Ah,  your  head  is  hot.” 

He  was  leaning  over  his  desk,  writing,  and  she  had  laid 
her  hand  on  his  head,  meaning  to  give  a  parting  caress. 
The  attitude  had  been  a  frequent  one,  and  Tito  was  accus¬ 
tomed,  when  he  felt  her  hand  there,  to  raise  his  head,  throw 
himself  a  little  backward,  and  look  up  at  her.  But  he  felt 
now  as  unable  to  raise  his  head  as  if  her  hand  had  been  a 
leaden  cowl.  He  spoke  instead,  in  a  light  tone,  as  his  pen 
still  ran  along. 

“  The  French  are  as  ready  to  go  from  Florence  as  the  wasps 
to  leave  a  ripe  pear  when  they  have  just  fastened  on  it.” 

Eomola,  keenly  sensitive  to  the  absence  of  the  usual  re¬ 
sponse,  took  away  her  hand  and  said,  “  I  am  going,  Tito.” 

“Farewell,  my  sweet  one.  I  must  wait  at  home.  Take 
Maso  with  you.” 

Still  Tito  did  not  look  up,  and  Eomola  went  out  without 
saying  any  more.  Very  slight  things  make  epochs  in  married 


FEUTT  IS  SEED. 


^yl 

fife,  and  this  morning  for  the  first  time  she  admitted  to  herself 
not  only  that  Tito  had  changed,  but  that  he  had  changed 
towards  her.  Did  the  reason  lie  in  herself  ?  She  might 
perhaps  have  thought  so,  if  there  had  not  been  the  facts  of 
the  armor  and  the  picture  to  suggest  some  external  event 
which  was  an  entire  mystery  to  her. 

But  Tito  no  sooner  believed  that  Eomola  was  out  of  the 
house  than  he  laid  down  his  pen  and  looked  up,  in  delightful 
security  from  seeing  anything  else  than  parchment  and  broken 
marble.  He  was  rather  disgusted  with  himself  that  he  had 
not  been  able  to  look  up  at  Romola  and  behave  to  her  just  as 
usual.  He  would  have  chosen,  if  he  could,  to  be  even  more 
than  usually  kind ;  but  he  could  not,  on  a  sudden,  master  an 
involuntary  shrinking  from  her,  which,  by  a  subtle  relation, 
depended  on  those  very  characteristics  in  him  that  made  him 
desire  not  to  fail  in  his  marks  of  affection.  He  was  about  to 
take  a  step  which  he  knew  would  arouse  her  deep  indignation  ; 
he  would  have  to  encounter  much  that  was  unpleasant  before 
he  could  win  her  forgiveness.  And  Tito  could  never  find  it 
easy  to  face  displeasure  and  anger  ;  his  nature  was  one  of 
those  most  remote  from  defiance  or  impudence,  and  all  his 
inclinations  leaned  towards  preserving  Romola’s  tenderness. 
He  was  not  tormented  by  sentimental  scruples  which,  as  he 
had  demonstrated  to  himself  by  a  very  rapid  course  of  argu¬ 
ment,  had  no  relation  to  solid  utility  but  his  freedom  from 
scruples  did  not  release  him  from  the  dread  of  what  was 
disagreeable.  Unscrupulousness  gets  rid  of  much,  but  not 
of  toothache,  or  wounded  vanity,  or  the  sense  of  loneliness, 
against  which,  as  the  world  at  present  stands,  there  is  no 
security  but  a  thoroughly  healthy  jaw,  and  a  just,  loving  soul. 
And  Tito  was  feeling  intensely  at  this  moment  that  no  devices 
could  save  him  from  pain  in  the  impending  collision  with 
Komola;  no  persuasive  blandness  could  cushion  him  against 
the  shock  towards  which  he  was  being  driven  like  a  timid 
animal  urged  to  a  desperate  leap  by  the  terror  of  the  tooth  and 
the  claw  that  are  close  behind  it. 

The  secret  feeling  he  had  previously  had  that  the  tenacious 
adherence  to  Bardo’s  wishes  about  the  library  had  become 


292 


ROMOLA. 


under  existing  difficulties  a  piece  of  sentimental  folly,  wMcli 
deprived  himself  and  Romola  of  substantial  advantages,  might 
perhaps  never  have  wrought  itself  into  action  but  for  the 
events  of  the  past  week,  which  had  brought  at  once  the  pres¬ 
sure  of  a  new  motive  and  the  outlet  of  a  rare  opportunity. 
Nay,  it  was  not  till  his  dread  had  been  aggravated  by  the 
sight  of  Baldassarre  looking  more  like  his  sane  self,  not  until 
he  had  begun  to  feel  that  he  might  be  compelled  to  flee  from 
Florence,  that  he  had  brought  himself  to  resolve  on  using  his 
legal  right  to  sell  the  library  before  the  great  opportunity 
offered  by  French  and  Milanese  bidders  slipped  through  his 
fingers.  For  if  he  had  to  leave  Florence  he  did  not  want  to 
leave  it  as  a  destitute  wanderer.  He  had  been  used  to  an 
agreeable  existence,  and  he  wished  to  carry  with  him  all  the 
means  at  hand  for  retaining  the  same  agreeable  conditions. 
He  wished  among  other  things  to  carry  Romola  vutli  him,  and 
not,  if  possible,  to  carry  any  infamy.  Success  had  given  him 
a  growing  appetite  for  all  the  pleasures  that  depend  on  an 
advantageous  social  position,  and  at  no  moment  could  it  look 
like  a  temptation  to  him,  but  only  like  a  hideous  alternative, 
to  decamp  under  dishonor,  even  with  a  bag  of  diamonds,  and 
incur  the  life  of  an  adventiarer.  It  was  not  possible  for  him 
to  make  himself  independent  even  of  those  Florentines  who 
only  greeted  him  with  regard ;  still  less  was  it  possible  for 
him  to  make  himself  independent  of  Romola.  She  was  the 
wife  of  his  first  love  — he  loved  her  still;  she  belonged  to 
that  furniture  of  life  which  he  shrank  from  parting  with.  He 
winced  under  her  judgment,  he  felt  uncertain  how  far  the 
revulsion  of  her  feeling  towards  him  might  go ;  and  all  that 
sense  of  power  over  a  wife  which  makes  a  husband  risk  be¬ 
trayals  that  a  lover  never  ventures  on,  would  not  suffice  to 
counteract  Tito’s  uneasiness.  This  was  the  leaden  weight 
which  had  been  too  strong  for  his  will,  and  kept  him  from 
raising  his  head  to  meet  her  eyes.  Their  pure  light  brought 
too  near  him  the  prospect  of  a  coming  struggle.  But  it  was 
not  to  be  helped ;  if  they  had  to  leave  Florence,  they  must 
have  money ;  indeed,  Tito  could  not  arrange  life  at  all  to  bis 
mind  without  a  considerable  sum  of  money.  And  that  prob- 


FRUIT  IS  SEED. 


293 


lem  of  arranging  life  to  liis  mind  had  been  the  source  of  all 
his  misdoing.  He  would  have  been  equal  to  any  sacrifice  that 
was  not  unpleasant. 

The  rustling  magnates  came  and  went,  the  bargains  had 
been  concluded,  and  Eomola  returned  home ;  but  nothing 
grave  was  said  that  night.  Tito  was  only  gay  and  chatty, 
pouring  forth  to  her,  as  he  had  not  done  before,  stories  and 
descriptions  of  what  he  had  witnessed  during  the  French  visit. 
Komola  thought  she  discerned  an  effort  in  his  liveliness,  and 
attributing  it  to  the  consciousness  in  him  that  she  had  been 
wounded  in  the  morning,  accepted  the  effort  as  an  act  of  peni¬ 
tence,  inwardly  aching  a  little  at  that  sign  of  growing  distance 
between  them  —  that  there  was  an  offence  about  which  neither 
of  them  dared  to  speak. 

The  next  day  Tito  remained  away  from  home  until  late  at 
night.  It  was  a  marked  day  to  Romola,  for  Piero  di  Cosimo, 
stimulated  to  greater  industry  on  her  behalf  by  the  fear  that 
he  might  have  been  the  cause  of  pain  to  her  in  the  past  week, 
had  sent  home  her  father’s  portrait.  She  had  propped  it 
against  the  back  of  his  old  chair,  and  had  been  looking  at  it 
for  some  time,  when  the  door  opened  behind  her,  and  Bernardo 
del  Nero  came  in. 

‘‘  It  is  you,  godfather  !  How  I  wish  you  had  come  sooner ! 
it  is  getting  a  little  dusk,”  said  Eomola,  going  towards  him. 

‘‘  I  have  just  looked  in  to  tell  you  the  good  news,  for  I  know 
Tito  has  not  come  yet,”  said  Bernardo.  ^^The  French  king 
moves  off  to-morrow :  not  before  it  is  high  time.  There  has 
been  another  tussle  between  our  people  and  his  soldiers  this 
morning.  But  there ’s  a  chance  now  of  the  city  getting  into 
order  once  more  and  trade  going  on.” 

“That  is  joyful,”  said  Bomola.  “But  it  is  sudden,  is  it 
not  ?  Tito  seemed  to  think  yesterday  that  there  was  little 
prospect  of  the  king’s  going  soon.” 

“  He  has  been  well  barked  at,  that ’s  the  reason,”  said  Ber¬ 
nardo,  smiling.  “  His  own  generals  opened  their  throats 
pretty  well,  and  at  last  our  Signoria  sent  the  mastiff  of  the 
city.  Fra  Girolamo.  The  Cristianissimo  was  frightened  at 
that  thunder,  and  has  given  the  order  to  move.  I ’m  afraid 


294 


ROMOLA. 


there  ^11  be  small  agreement  among  us  when  he ’s  gone,  but,  at 
any  rate,  all  parties  are  agreed  in  being  glad  not  to  have  Flor¬ 
ence  stifled  with  soldiery  any  longer,  and  the  Frate  has  barked 
this  time  to  some  purpose.  Ah,  what  is  this  ?  ”  he  added,  as 
Ivomola,  clasping  him  by  the  arm,  led  him  in  front  of  the 
picture.  “Let  us  see.” 

He  began  to  unwind  his  long  scarf  while  she  placed  a  seat 
for  him. 

“  Don’t  you  want  your  spectacles,  godfather  ?  ”  said  Romola, 
in  anxiety  that  he  should  see  just  what  she  saw. 

“No,  child,  no,”  said  Bernardo,  uncovering  his  gray  head,  as 
he  seated  himself  with  firm  erectness.  “  For  seeing  at  this 
distance,  my  old  eyes  are  perhaps  better  than  your  young  ones. 
Old  men’s  eyes  are  like  old  men’s  memories  ;  they  are  strong¬ 
est  for  things  a  long  way  off.” 

“  It  is  better  than  having  no  portrait,”  said  Romola,  apolo¬ 
getically,  after  Bernardo  had  been  silent  a  little  while.  “  It 
is  less  like  him  now  than  the  image  I  have  in  my  mind,  but 
then  that  might  fade  with  the  years.”  She  rested  her  arm 
on  the  old  man’s  shoulder  as  she  spoke,  drawn  towards  him 
strongly  by  their  common  interest  in  the  dead. 

“I  don’t  know,”  said  Bernardo.  “I  almost  think  I  see 
Bardo  as  he  was  when  he  was  young,  better  than  that  picture 
shows  him  to  me  as  he  was  when  he  was  old.  Your  father 
had  a  great  deal  of  fire  in  his  eyes  when  he  was  young.  It 
was  what  I  could  never  understand,  that  he,  with  his  fiery 
spirit,  which  seemed  much  more  impatient  than  mine,  could 
hang  over  the  books  and  live  with  shadows  all  his  life.  How¬ 
ever,  he  had  put  his  heart  into  that.” 

Bernardo  gave  a  slight  shrug  as  he  spoke  the  last  words, 
but  Romola  discerned  in  his  voice  a  feeling  that  accorded  with 
her  own. 

“  And  he  was  disappointed  to  the  last,”  she  said,  involun¬ 
tarily.  But  immediately  fearing  lest  her  words  should  be 
taken  to  imply  an  accusation  against  Tito,  she  went  on  almost 
hurriedly,  “If  we  could  only  see  his  longest,  dearest  wish 
fulfilled  just  to  his  mind  !  ” 

“  Well,  so  we  may,”  said  Bernardo,  kindly,  rising  and  put- 


A  REVELATION. 


295 


ting  on  his  cap.  “  The  times  are  cloudy  now,  but  fish  are 
caught  by  waiting.  Who  knows  ?  When  the  wheel  has 
turned  often  enough,  I  may  be  Gonfaloniere  yet  before  I  die ; 
and  no  creditor  can  touch  these  things.”  He  looked  round  as 
he  spoke.  Then,  turning  to  her,  and  patting  her  cheek,  said, 
‘‘  And  you  need  not  be  afraid  of  my  dying ;  my  ghost  will 
claim  nothing.  I ’ve  taken  care  of  that  in  my  will.” 

Romola  seized  the  hand  that  was  against  her  cheek,  and  put 
it  to  her  lips  in  silence. 

“  Have  n’t  you  been  scolding  your  husband  for  keeping  away 
from  home  so  much  lately  ?  I  see  him  everywhere  but  here,” 
said  Bernardo,  willing  to  change  the  subject. 

She  felt  the  flush  spread  over  her  neck  and  face  as  she  said, 
“  He  has  been  very  much  wanted ;  you  know  he  speaks  so  well. 
I  am  glad  to  know  that  his  value  is  understood.” 

“You  are  contented  then.  Madonna  Orgogliosa  ?  ”  said 
Bernardo,  smiling,  as  he  moved  to  the  door. 

“  Assuredly.” 

Boor  Romola !  There  was  one  thing  that  would  have  made 
the  pang  of  disappointment  in  her  husband  harder  to  bear ;  it 
was,  that  any  one  should  know  he  gave  her  cause  for  disap¬ 
pointment.  This  might  be  a  woman’s  weakness,  but  it  is 
closely  allied  to  a  woman’s  nobleness.  She  who  willingly  lifts 
up  the  veil  of  her  married  life  has  profaned  it  from  a  sanctuary 
into  a  vulgar  place. 


♦ 


CHABTER  XXXII. 

A  REVELATION. 

The  next  day  Eomola,  like  every  other  Florentine,  was 
excited  about  the  departure  of  the  French.  Besides  her  other 
reasons  for  gladness,  she  had  a  dim  hope,  which  she  was  con¬ 
scious  was  half  superstitious,  that  those  new  anxieties  about 
Tito,  having  come  with  the  burdensome  guests,  might  perhaps 
I  V’anish  with  them.  The  French  had  been  iu  Florence  hardly 


296 


ROMOLA. 


elsven  days,  but  in  that  space  she  had  felt  more  acute 
unhappiness  than  she  had  known  in  her  life  before.  Tito 
had  adopted  the  hateful  armor  on  the  day  of  their  arrival, 
and  though  she  could  frame  no  distinct  notion  why  their 
departure  should  remove  the  cause  of  his  fear  —  though,  when 
she  thought  of  that  cause,  the  image  of  the  prisoner  grasping 
him,  as  she  had  seen  it  in  Piero’s  sketch,  urged  itself  before 
her  and  excluded  every  other  —  still,  when  the  French  were 
gone,  she  would  be  rid  of  something  that  was  strongly  asso¬ 
ciated  with  her  pain. 

Wrapped  in  her  mantle  she  waited  under  the  loggia  at  the 
top  of  the  house,  and  watched  for  the  glimpses  of  the  troops 
and  the  royal  retinue  passing  the  bridges  on  their  way  to  the 
Porta  San  Piero,  that  looks  towards  Siena  and  Pome.  She 
even  returned  to  her  station  when  the  gates  had  been  closed, 
that  she  might  feel  herself  vibrating  with  the  great  peal  of  the 
bells.  It  was  dusk  then,  and  when  at  last  she  descended  into 
the  library,  she  lit  her  lamp  with  the  resolution  that  she 
would  overcome  the  agitation  which  had  made  her  idle  all 
day,  and  sit  down  to  work  at  her  copying  of  the  catalogue. 
Tito  had  left  home  early  in  the  morning,  and  she  did  not 
expect  him  yet.  Before  he  came  she  intended  to  leave  the 
library,  and  sit  in  the  pretty  saloon,  with  the  dancing  nymphs 
and  the  birds.  She  had  done  so  every  evening  since  he  had 
objected  to  the  library  as  chill  and  gloomy. 

To  her  great  surprise,  she  had  not  been  at  work  long  before 
Tito  entered.  Her  first  thought  was,  how  cheerless  he  would 
feel  in  the  wide  darkness  of  this  great  room,  with  one  little 
oil-lamp  burning  at  the  further  end,  and  the  fire  nearly  out. 
She  almost  ran  towards  him. 

“Tito,  dearest,  I  did  not  know  you  would  come  so  soon,” 
she  said,  nervously,  putting  up  her  white  arms  to  unwind  his 
becchetto. 

“  I  am  not  welcome  then  ?  ”  he  said,  with  one  of  his  bright¬ 
est  smiles,  clasping  her,  but  playfully  holding  his  head  back 
from  her. 

“  Tito  !  ”  She  uttered  the  word  in  a  tone  of  pretty,  loving 
reproach,  and  then  he  kissed  her  fondly,  stroked  her  hair,  as 


A  REVELATION. 


297 


his  manner  was,  and  seemed  not  to  mind  about  taking  off  his 
mantle  yet.  Eomola  quivered  with  delight.  All  the  emotions 
of  the  day  had  been  preparing  in  her  a  keener  sensitiveness  to 
the  return  of  this  habitual  manner.  “  It  will  come  back,’’  she 
was  saying  to  herself,  '‘the  old  happiness  will  perhaps  come 
back.  He  is  like  himself  again.” 

Tito  was  taking  great  pains  to  be  like  himself ;  his  heart 
was  palpitating  with  anxiety. 

“  If  I  had  expected  you  so  soon,”  said  Eomola,  as  she  at 
last  helped  him  to  take  off  his  wrappings,  "  I  would  have  had 
a  little  festival  prepared  to  this  joyful  ringing  of  the  bells.  I 
did  not  mean  to  be  here  in  the  library  when  you  came  home.” 

"  Never  mind,  sweet,”  he  said,  carelessly.  “  Do  not  think 
about  the  fire.  Come  —  come  and  sit  down.” 

There  was  a  low  stool  against  Tito’s  chair,  and  that  was 
Eomola’s  habitual  seat  when  they  were  talking  together.  She 
rested  her  arm  on  his  knee,  as  she  used  to  do  on  her  father’s, 
and  looked  up  at  him  while  he  spoke.  He  had  never  yet 
noticed  the  presence  of  the  portrait,  and  she  had  not  men¬ 
tioned  it  — thinking  of  it  all  the  more. 

"  I  have  been  enjoying  the  clang  of  the  bells  for  the  first 
time,  Tito,”  she  began.  “  I  liked  being  shaken  and  deafened 
by  them  :  I  fancied  I  was  something  like  a  Bacchante  pos¬ 
sessed  by  a  divine  rage.  Are  not  the  people  looking  very 
joyful  to-night  ?  ” 

“  Joyful  after  a  sour  and  pious  fashion,”  said  Tito,  with  a 
shrug.  "  But,  in  truth,  those  who  are  left  behind  in  Florence 
have  little  cause  to  be  joyful :  it  seems  to  me,  the  most  rea¬ 
sonable  ground  of  gladness  would  be  to  have  got  out  of 
Florence.” 

Tito  had  sounded  the  desired  key-note  without  any  trouble, 
or  appearance  of  premeditation.  He  spoke  with  no  emphasis, 
but  he  looked  grave  enough  to  make  Eoxnola  ask  rather 
anxiously  — 

“  Why,  Tito  ?  Are  there  fresh  troubles  ?  ” 

“No  need  of  fresh  ones,  my  Eomola.  There  are  three 
strong  parties  in  the  city,  all  ready  to  fly  at  each  other’s 
throats.  And  if  the  Frate’s  party  is  strong  enough  to  frighten 


^98 


ROMOLA. 


the  other  two  into  silence,  as  seems  most  likely,  life  will  be  as 
pleasant  and  amusing  as  a  funeral.  They  have  the  plan  of  a 
Great  Council  simmering  already ;  and  if  they  get  it,  the  man 
who  sings  sacred  Lauds  the  loudest  will  be  the  most  eligible 
for  office.  And  besides  that,  the  city  will  be  so  drained  by 
the  payment  of  this  great  subsidy  to  the  French  king,  and  by 
the  war  to  get  back  Pisa,  that  the  prospect  would  be  dismal 
enough  without  the  rule  of  fanatics.  On  the  whole,  Florence 
will  be  a  delightful  place  for  those  worthies  who  entertain 
themselves  in  the  evening  by  going  into  crypts  and  lashing 
themselves ;  but  for  everything  else,  the  exiles  have  the  best 
of  it.  For  my  own  part,  I  have  been  thinking  seriously  that 
we  should  be  wise  to  quit  Florence,  my  Romola.” 

She  started.  “  Tito,  how  could  we  leave  Florence  ?  Surely 
you  do  not  think  I  could  leave  it  —  at  least,  not  yet  —  not 
for  a  long  while.”  She  had  turned  cold  and  trembling,  and 
did  not  find  it  quite  easy  to  speak.  Tito  must  know  the  rea¬ 
sons  she  had  in  her  mind. 

“  That  is  all  a  fabric  of  your  own  imagination,  my  sweet 
one.  Your  secluded  life  has  made  you  lay  such  false  stress 
on  a  few  things.  You  know  I  used  to  tell  you,  before  we  were 
married,  that  I  wished  we  were  somewhere  else  than  in  Flor¬ 
ence.  If  you  had  seen  more  places  and  more  people,  you 
would  know  what  I  mean  when  I  say  that  there  is  something 
in  the  Florentines  that  reminds  me  of  their  cutting  spring 
winds.  I  like  people  who  take  life  less  eagerly ;  and  it  would 
be  good  for  my  Romola,  too,  to  see  a  new  life.  I  should  like 
to  dip  her  a  little  in  the  soft  waters  of  forgetfulness.” 

He  leaned  forward  and  kissed  her  brow,  and  laid  his  hand 
on  her  fair  hair  again ;  but  she  felt  his  caress  no  more  than  if 
he  had  kissed  a  mask.  She  was  too  much  agitated  by  the 
sense  of  the  distance  between  their  minds  to  be  conscious  that 
his  lips  touched  her. 

Tito,  it  is  not  because  I  suppose  Florence  is  the  pleasantest 
place  in  the  world  that  I  desire  not  to  quit  it.  It  is  because  I 
—  because  we  have  to  see  my  father’s  wish  fulfilled.  My  god¬ 
father  is  old ;  he  is  seventy -one  j  we  could  not  leave  it  tc 
him.” 


A  REVELATION. 


299 


“  It  is  precisely  those  superstitions  which  hang  about  your 
mind  like  bedimming  clouds,  my  Romola,  that  make  one  great 
reason  why  I  could  wish  we  were  two  hundred  leagues  from 
Florence.  I  am  obliged  to  take  care  of  you  in  opposition 
to  your  own  will:  if  those  dear  eyes,  that  look  so  tender, 
see  falsely,  I  must  see  for  them,  and  save  my  wife  from 
wasting  her  life  in  disappointing  herself  by  impracticable 
dreams.” 

Romola  sat  silent  and  motionless :  she  could  not  blind  her¬ 
self  to  the  direction  in  which  Tito’s  words  pointed  :  he  wanted 
to  persuade  her  that  they  might ,  get  the  library  deposited  in 
some  monastery,  or  take  some  other  ready  means  to  rid  them¬ 
selves  of  a  task,  and  of  a  tie  to  Florence ;  and  she  was  deter¬ 
mined  never  to  submit  her  mind  to  his  judgment  on  this 
question  of  duty  to  her  father;  she  was  inwardly  prepared 
to  encounter  any  sort  of  pain  in  resistance.  But  the  determi¬ 
nation  was  kept  latent  in  these  first  moments  by  the  heart¬ 
crushing  sense  that  now  at  last  she  and  Tito  must  be 
confessedly  divided  in  their  wishes.  He  was  glad  of  her 
silence  ;  for,  much  as  he  had  feared  the  strength  of  her  feel¬ 
ing,  it  was  impossible  for  him,  shut  up  in  the  narrowness  that 
hedges  in  all  merely  clever,  unimpassioned  men,  not  to  over¬ 
estimate  the  persuasiveness  of  his  own  arguments.  His  con¬ 
duct  did  not  look  ugly  to  himself,  and  his  imagination  did  not 
suffice  to  show  him  exactly  how  it  would  look  to  Romola.  He 
went  on  in  the  same  gentle,  remonstrating  tone. 

‘'You  know,  dearest  —  your  own  clear  judgment  always 
showed  you  — that  the  notion  of  isolating  a  collection  of  books 
and  antiquities,  and  attaching  a  single  name  to  them  forever, 
was  one  that  had  no  valid,  substantial  good  for  its  object :  and 
yet  more,  one  that  was  liable  to  be  defeated  in  a  thousand 
ways.  See  what  has  become  of  the  Medici  collections  !  And, 
for  my  part,  I  consider  it  even  blameworthy  to  entertain  those 
petty  views  of  appropriation :  why  should  any  one  be  reason- 
ably  glad  that  Florence  should  possess  the  benefits  of  learned 
research  and  taste  more  than  any  other  city  ?  I  understand 
your  feeling  about  the  wishes  of  the  dead ;  but  wisdom  puts  a 
limit  to  these  sentiments,  else  lives  might  be  continually  wasted 


300 


ROMOLA. 


in  that  sort  of  futile  devotion  —  like  praising  deaf  gods  for¬ 
ever.  You  gave  your  life  to  your  father  while  he  lived ;  why 
should  you  demand  more  of  yourself  ?  *’ 

“  Because  it  was  a  trust,”  said  Eomola,  in  a  low  but  distinct 
voice.  “  He  trusted  me,  he  trusted  you,  Tito.  I  did  not  ex¬ 
pect  you  to  feel  anything  else  about  it  —  to  feel  as  I  do  —  but 
I  did  expect  you  to  feel  that.” 

‘‘Yes,  dearest,  of  course  I  should  feel  it  on  a  point  where 
your  father’s  real  welfare  or  happiness  was  concerned;  but 
there  is  no  question  of  that  now.  If  we  believed  in  purgatory, 
I  should  be  as  anxious  as  you  to  have  masses  said;  and  if  I 
believed  it  could  now  pain  your  father  to  see  his  library  pre¬ 
served  and  used  in  a  rather  different  way  from  what  he  had 
set  his  mind  on,  I  should  share  the  strictness  of  your  views. 
But  a  little  philosophy  should  teach  us  to  rid  ourselves  of 
those  air-woven  fetters  that  mortals  hang  round  themselves, 
spending  their  lives  in  misery  under  the  mere  imagination  of 
weight.  Your  mind,  which  seizes  ideas  so  readily,  my  Eomola, 
is  able  to  discriminate  between  substantial  good  and  these 
brain-wrought  fantasies.  Ask  yourself,  dearest,  what  possible 
good  can  these  books  and  antiquities  do,  stowed  together  under 
your  father’s  name  in  Florence,  more  than  they  would  do  if 
they  were  divided  or  carried  elsewhere  ?  Nay,  is  not  the  very 
dispersion  of  such  things  in  hands  that  know  how  to  value 
them,  one  means  of  extending  their  usefulness  ?  This  rivalry 
of  Italian  cities  is  very  petty  and  illiberal.  The  loss  of  Con¬ 
stantinople  was  the  gain  of  the  whole  civilized  world.” 

Eomola  was  still  too  thoroughly  under  the  painful  pressure 
of  the  new  revelation  Tito  was  making  of  himself,  for  her 
resistance  to  find  any  strong  vent.  As  that  fluent  talk  fell  on 
her  ears  there  was  a  rising  contempt  within  her,  which  only 
made  her  more  conscious  of  her  bruised,  despairing  love,  her 
love  for  the  Tito  she  had  married  and  believed  in.  Her 
nature,  possessed  with  the  energies  of  strong  emotion,  recoiled 
from  this  hopelessly  shallow  readiness  which  professed  to 
appropriate  the  widest  sympathies  and  had  no  pulse  for  the 
nearest.  She  still  spoke  like  one  who  was  restrained  from 
showing  all  she  felt.  She  had  only  drawn  away  her  arm  from 


A  REVELATION.  301 

his  knee,  and  sat  with  liei'  hands  clasped  before  her,  cold  and 
motionless  as  locked  waters. 

“You  talk  of  substantial  good,  Tito!  Are  faithfulness,  and 
love,  and  sweet  grateful  memories,  no  good  ?  Is  it  no  good 
that  we  should  keep  our  silent  promises  on  which  others  build 
because  they  believe  in  our  love  and  truth  ?  Is  it  no  good 
that  a  just  life  should  be  justly  honored?  Or,  is  it  good  that 
we  should  harden  our  hearts  against  all  the  wants  and  hopes 
of  tliose  who  have  depended  on  us  ?  What  good  can  belong 
to  men  who  have  such  souls  ?  To  talk  cleverly,  perhaps,  and 
find  soft  couches  for  themselves,  and  live  and  die  with  their 
base  selves  as  their  best  companions.” 

Her  voice  had  gradually  risen  till  there  was  a  ring  of  scorn 
in  the  last  words  ;  she  made  a  slight  pause,  but  he  saw  there 
were  other  words  quivering  on  her  lips,  and  he  chose  to  let 
them  come. 

“  I  know  of  no  good  for  cities  or  the  world  if  they  are  to 
be  made  up  of  such  beings.  But  I  am  not  thinking  of  other 
Italian  cities  and  the  whole  civilized  world  —  I  am  thinking 
of  my  father,  and  of  my  love  and  sorrow  for  him,  and  of  his 
just  claims  on  us.  I  would  give  up  anything  else,  Tito,  —  I 
would  leave  Florence,  —  what  else  did  I  live  for  but  for  him 
and  you  ?  But  I  will  not  give  up  that  duty.  What  have  I  to 
do  with  your  arguments  ?  It  was  a  yearning  of  his  heart,  and 
therefore  it  is  a  yearning  of  mine.” 

Her  voice,  from  having  been  tremulous,  had  become  full  and 
firm.  She  felt  that  she  had  been  urged  on  to  say  all  that  it 
was  needful  for  her  to  say.  She  thought,  poor  thing,  there 
was  nothing  harder  to  come  than  this  struggle  against  Tito’s 
suggestions  as  against  the  meaner  part  of  herself. 

He  had  begun  to  see  clearly  that  he  could  not  persuade  her 
into  assent :  he  must  take  another  course,  and  show  her  that 
the  time  for  resistance  was  past.  That,  at  least,  would  put 
an  end  to  further  struggle ;  and  if  the  disclosure  were  not 
made  by  himself  to-night,  to-morrow  it  must  be  made  in  an¬ 
other  way.  This  necessity  nerved  his  courage ;  and  his  expe- 
rience  of  her  affectionateness  and  unexpected  submissiveness, 
ever  since  their  marriage  until  now,  encouraged  him  to  hope 


502  ROMOLA. 

that,  at  last,  she  would  accommodate  herself  to  what  had  been 
his  will. 

“  I  am  sorry  to  hear  you  speak  in  that  spirit  of  blind  per¬ 
sistence,  my  Eomola,”  he  said,  quietly,  ‘‘  because  it  obliges  me 
to  give  you  pain.  But  I  partly  foresaw  your  opposition,  and 
as  a  prompt  decision  was  necessary,  I  avoided  that  obstacle, 
and  decided  without  consulting  you.  The  very  care  of  a  hus¬ 
band  for  his  wife’s  interest  compels  him  to  that  separate  ac¬ 
tion  sometimes  —  even  when  he  has  such  a  wife  as  you,  my 
Romola.” 

She  turned  her  eyes  on  him  in  breathless  inquiry. 

‘‘I  mean,”  he  said,  answering  her  look,  “that  I  have  ar¬ 
ranged  for  the  transfer,  both  of  the  books  and  of  the  antiqui¬ 
ties,  where  they  will  find  the  highest  use  and  value.  The 
books  have  been  bought  for  the  Duke  of  Milan,  the  marbles 
and  bronzes  and  the  rest  are  going  to  France :  and  both  will 
be  protected  by  the  stability  of  a  great  Power,  instead  of  re¬ 
maining  in  a  city  which  is  exposed  to  ruin.” 

Before  he  had  finished  speaking,  Romola  had  started  from 
her  seat,  and  stood  up  looking  down  at  him,  with  tightened 
hands  falling  before  her,  and,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life, 
with  a  flash  of  fierceness  in  her  scorn  and  anger. 

“You  have  sold  them  ?”  she  asked,  as  if  she  distrusted  her 
ears. 

“  I  have,”  said  Tito,  quailing  a  little.  The  scene  was  un¬ 
pleasant —  the  descending  scorn  already  scorched  him. 

“You  are  a  treacherous  man!”  she  said,  with  something 
grating  in  her  voice,  as  she  looked  down  at  him. 

She  was  silent  for  a  minute,  and  he  sat  still,  feeling  that 
ingenuity  was  powerless  just  now.  Suddenly  she  turned  away, 
and  said  in  an  agitated  tone,  “It  may  be  hindered  —  I  am 
going  to  my  godfather.” 

In  an  instant  Tito  started  up,  went  to  the  door,  locked  it, 
and  took  out  the  key.  It  was  time  for  all  the  masculine  pre¬ 
dominance  that  was  latent  in  him  to  show  itself.  But  he  was 
not  angry;  he  only  felt  that  the  moment  was  eminently 
unpleasant,  and  that  when  this  scene  was  at  an  end  he  should 
be  glad  to  keep  away  from  Romola  for  a  little  while.  But  it 


A  REVELATION.  30B 

«ras  absolutely  necessary  first  that  slie  should  be  reduced  to 
passiveuess. 

‘‘  Try  to  calm  yourself  a  little,  Eomola,”  he  said,  leaning  in 
the  easiest  attitude  possible  against  a  pedestal  under  the  bust 
of  a  grim  old  Eoinan.  Not  that  he  was  inwardly  easy :  his 
heart  palpitated  with  a  moral  dread,  against  which  no  chain- 
armor  could  be  found.  He  had  locked  in  his  wife’s  anger  and 
scorn,  but  he  had  been  obliged  to  lock  himself  in  with  it ;  and 
his  blood  did  not  rise  with  contest  —  his  olive  cheek  was 
perceptibly  paled. 

Eoinola  had  paused  and  turned  her  eyes  on  him  as  she  saw 
him  take  his  stand  and  lodge  the  key  in  his  scarsella.  Her 
eyes  were  flashing,  and  her  whole  frame  seemed  to  be  pos¬ 
sessed  by  impetuous  force  that  wanted  to  leap  out  in  some 
deed.  All  the  crushing  pain  of  disappointment  in  her  hus¬ 
band,  which  had  made  the  strongest  part  of  her  consciousness 
a  few  minutes  before,  was  annihilated  by  the  vehemence  of 
her  indignation.  She  could  not  care  in  this  moment  that  the 
man  she  was  despising  as  he  leaned  there  in  his  loathsome 
beauty  —  she  could  not  care  that  he  was  her  husband ;  she 
could  only  feel  that  she  despised  him.  The  pride  and  fierce¬ 
ness  of  the  old  Bardo  blood  had  been  thoroughly  awaked  in 
her  for  the  first  time. 

“Try  at  least  to  understand  the  fact,”  said  Tito,  “and  do 
not  seek  to  take  futile  steps  which  may  be  fatal.  It  is  of  no 
use  for  you  to  go  to  your  godfather.  Messer  Bernardo  cannot 
reverse  what  I  liave  done.  Only  sit  down.  You  would  hardly 
wish,  if  you  were  quite  yourself,  to  make  known  to  any  third 
person  what  passes  between  us  in  private.” 

Tito  knew  that  he  had  touched  the  right  fibre  there.  But 
she  did  not  sit  down ;  she  was  too  unconscious  of  her  body 
voluntarily  to  change  her  attitude. 

“Why  can  it  not  be  reversed?”  she  said,  after  a  pause. 
“Nothing  is  moved  yet.” 

“Simply  because  the  sale  has  been  eoncluded  by  written 
agreement;  the  purchasers  have  left  Florence,  and  I  hold  the 
bonds  for  the  purchase-money.” 

“  If  my  father  had  suspected  you  of  being  a  faithless  man,” 


304 


EOMOLA. 


said  Romola,  in  a  tone  of  bitter  scorn,  which  insisted  on  dart¬ 
ing  out  before  she  could  say  anything  else,  ‘‘he  would  have 
placed  the  library  safely  out  of  your  power.  But  death  over¬ 
took  him  too  soon,  and  when  you  were  sure  his  ear  was  deaf, 
and  his  hand  stiff,  you  robbed  him.”  She  paused  an  instant, 
and  then  said,  with  gathered  passion,  “Have  you  robbed 
somebody  else,  who  is  not  dead  ?  Is  that  the  reason  you 
wear  armor  ?  ” 

Eomola  had  been  driven  to  utter  the  words  as  men  are 
driven  to  use  the  lash  of  the  horsewhip.  At  first,  Tito  felt 
horribly  cowed;  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  disgrace  he  had 
been  dreading  would  be  worse  than  he  had  imagined  it.  But 
soon  there  was  a  reaction :  such  power  of  dislike  and  resist¬ 
ance  as  there  was  within  him  was  beginning  to  rise  against 
a  wife  whose  voice  seemed  like  the  herald  of  a  retributive 
fate.  Her,  at  least,  his  quick  mind  told  him  that  he  might 
master. 

‘‘It  is  useless,”  he  said,  coolly,  “to  answer  the  words  of 
madness,  Eomola.  Your  peculiar  feeling  about  your  father 
has  made  you  mad  at  this  moment.  Any  rational  person 
looking  at  the  case  from  a  due  distance  will  see  that  I  have 
taken  the  wisest  course.  Apart  from  the  influence  of  your 
exaggerated  feelings  on  him,  I  am  convinced  that  Messer 
Bernardo  would  be  of  that  opinion.” 

“  He  would  not !  ”  said  Eomola.  “  He  lives  in  the  hope  of 
seeing  my  father’s  wish  exactly  fulfilled.  We  spoke  of  it 
together  only  yesterday.  He  will  help  me  yet.  Who  are 
these  men  to  whom  you  have  sold  my  father’s  property  ?  ” 

“  There  is  no  reason  why  you  should  not  be  told,  except 
that  it  signifies  little.  The  Count  di  San  Severino  and  the 
Seneschal  de  Beaucaire  are  now  on  their  way  with  the  king 
to  Siena.” 

“  They  may  be  overtaken  and  persuaded  to  give  up  their 
purchase,”  said  Eomola,  eagerly,  her  anger  beginning  to  be 
surmounted  by  anxious  thought, 

“No,  they  may  not,”  said  Tito,  with  cool  decision. 

“  Why  ?  ” 

“  Because  I  do  not  choose  that  they  should.” 


A  EEVELATION.  305 

But  if  you  were  paid  the  money  ?  —  we  will  pay  you  the 
money/’  said  Eomola. 

No  words  could  have  disclosed  more  fully  her  sense  of 
alienation  from  Tito ;  but  they  were  spoken  with  less  of 
bitterness  than  of  anxious  pleading.  And  he  felt  stronger, 
for  he  saw  that  the  first  impulse  of  fury  was  past. 

‘‘No,  my  Eomola.  Understand  that  such  thoughts  as  these 
are  impracticable.  You  would  not,  in  a  reasonable  moment, 
ask  your  godfather  to  bury  three  thousand  florins  in  addition 
to  what  he  has  already  paid  on  the  library.  I  think  your 
pride  and  delicacy  would  shrink  from  that.” 

She  began  to  tremble  and  turn  cold  again  with  discourage¬ 
ment,  and  sank  down  on  the  carved  chest  near  which  she  was 
standing.  He  went  on  in  a  clear  voice,  under  which  she  shud¬ 
dered,  as  if  it  had  been  a  narrow  cold  stream  coursing  over  a 
hot  cheek. 

“  Moreover,  it  is  not  my  will  that  Messer  Bernardo  should 
advance  the  money,  even  if  the  project  w^ere  not  an  utterly 
wild  one.  And  I  beg  you  to  consider,  before  you  take  any  step 
or  utter  any  word  on  the  subject,  what  will  be  the  consequences 
of  your  placing  yourself  in  opposition  to  me,  and  trying  to 
exhibit  your  husband  in  the  odious  light  which  your  own  dis¬ 
tempered  feelings  cast  over  him.  What  object  wall  you  serve 
by  injuring  me  with  Messer  Bernardo  ?  The  event  is  irrevo¬ 
cable,  the  library  is  sold,  and  you  are  my  wife.” 

Every  word  wms  spoken  for  the  sake  of  a  calculated  effect, 
for  his  intellect  was  urged  into  the  utmost  activity  by  the 
danger  of  the  crisis.  He  knew  that  Eomola’s  mind  would  take 
in  rapidly  enough  all  the  wide  meaning  of  his  speech.  He 
waited  and  watched  her  in  silence. 

She  had  turned  her  eyes  from  him,  and  was  looking  on  the 
ground,  and  in  that  way  she  sat  for  several  minutes.  When 
she  spoke,  her  voice  was  quite  altered,  —  it  was  quiet  and  cold. 

“  I  have  one  thing  to  ask.” 

“Ask  anything  that  I  can  do  without  injuring  us  both, 
Eomola.” 

“That  you  will  give  me  that  portion  of  the  money  which 
belongs  to  my  godfather,  and  let  me  pay  him.” 

VOL.  V.  20 


306 


ROMOLA. 


I  must  have  some  assurance  from  you,  first,  of  the  attitude 
you  intend  to  take  towards  me.” 

“  Do  you  believe  in  assurances,  Tito  ?  ”  she  said,  with  a 
tinge  of  returning  bitterness. 

“  From  you,  I  do.” 

“  I  will  do  you  no  harm.  I  shall  disclose  nothing.  I  will 
say  nothing  to  pain  him  or  you.  You  say  truly,  the  event  is 
irrevocable.” 

Then  I  will  do  what  you  desire  to-morrow  morning.” 

“  To-night,  if  possible,”  said  Romola,  “  that  we  may  not 
speak  of  it  again.” 

“It  is  possible,”  he  said,  moving  towards  the  lamp,  while 
she  sat  still,  looking  away  from  him  with  absent  eyes. 

Presently  he  came  and  bent  down  over  her,  to  put  a  piece  of 
paper  into  her  hand.  “  You  will  receive  something  in  return, 
you  are  aware,  my  Romola  ?  ”  he  said,  gently,  not  minding  so 
much  what  had  passed,  now  he  was  secure ;  and  feeling  able 
to  try  and  propitiate  her. 

“  Yes,”  she  said,  taking  the  paper,  without  looking  at  him, 
“  I  understand.” 

“  And  you  will  forgive  me,  my  Romola,  when  you  have  had 
time  to  reflect.”  He  just  touched  her  brow  with  his  lips,  but 
she  took  no  notice,  and  seemed  really  unconscious  of  the  act. 

She  was  aware  that  he  unlocked  the  door  and  went  out. 
She  moved  her  head  and  listened.  The  great  door  of  the 
court  opened  and  shut  again.  She  started  up  as  if  some  sud¬ 
den  freedom  had  come,  and  going  to  her  father’s  chair  where 
his  picture  was  propped,  fell  on  her  knees  before  it,  and  burst 
into  sobs. 


» 

CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

BALDASSARRE  MAKES  AN  ACQUAINTANCE. 

When  Baldassarre  was  wandering  about  Florence  in  search 
of  a  spare  outhouse  where  he  might  have  the  eheapest  of  shel¬ 
tered  beds,  his  steps  had  been  attracted  towards  that  sole 


BALDASSAERE  MAKES  AN  ACQUAINTANCE.  307 

portion  of  ground  within  the  walls  of  the  city  which  is  not 
perfectly  level,  and  where  the  spectator,  lifted  above  the  roofs 
of  the  houses,  can  see  beyond  the  city  to  the  protecting  hills 
and  far-stretching  valley,  otherwise  shut  out  from  his  view 
except  along  the  welcome  opening  made  by  the  course  of  the 
Arno.  Part  of  that  ground  has  been  already  seen  by  us  as  the 
hill  of  Bogoli,  at  that  time  a  great  stone-quarry ;  but  the  side 
towards  which  Baldassarre  directed  his  steps  was  the  one  that 
sloped  down  behind  the  Via  de’  Bardi,  and  was  most  commonly 
called  the  hill  of  San  Giorgio.  Bratti  had  told  him  that  Tito’s 
dwelling  was  in  the  Via  de’  Bardi ;  and,  after  surveying  that 
street,  he  turned  up  the  slope  of  the  hill  which  he  had  observed 
as  he  was  crossing  the  bridge.  If  he  could  find  a  sheltering 
outhouse  on  that  hill,  he  would  be  glad :  he  had  now  for  some 
years  been  accustomed  to  live  with  a  broad  sky  about  him  ; 
and,  moreover,  the  narrow  passes  of  the  streets,  with  their  strip 
of  sky  above,  and  the  unknown  labyrinth  around  them,  seemed 
to  intensify  his  sense  of  loneliness  and  feeble  memory. 

The  hill  was  sparsely  inhabited,  and  covered  chiefly  by  gar¬ 
dens;  but  in  one  spot  was  a  piece  of  rough  ground  jagged  with 
great  stones,  which  had  never  been  cultivated  since  a  landslip 
had  ruined  some  houses  there  towards  the  end  of  the  thirteenth 
century.  Just  above  the  edge  of  this  broken  ground  stood  a 
queer  little  square  building,  looking  like  a  truncated  tower 
roofed  in  with  fluted  tiles,  and  close  by  was  a  small  outhouse, 
apparently  built  up  against  a  piece  of  ruined  stone  wall. 
Under  a  large  half-dead  mulberry-tree  that  was  now  sending 
its  last  fluttering  leaves  in  at  the  open  doorways,  a  shrivelled, 
hardy  old  woman  was  untying  a  goat  with  two  kids,  and  Bal¬ 
dassarre  could  see  that  part  of  the  outbuilding  was  occupied  by 
live  stock ;  but  the  door  of  the  other  part  was  open,  and  it 
was  empty  of  everything  but  some  tools  and  straw.  It  was 
just  the  sort  of  place  he  wanted.  He  spoke  to  the  old  woman ; 
but  it  was  not  till  he  got  close  to  her  and  shouted  in  her  ear, 
that  he  succeeded  in  making  her  understand  his  want  of  a 
lodging,  and  his  readiness  to  pay  for  it.  At  first  he  could  get 
no  answer  beyond  shakes  of  the  head  and  the  words,  ‘‘No  — 
no  lodging,”  uttered  in  the  muffled  tone  of  the  deaf.  But,  by 


308 


ROMOLA. 


dint  of  persistence,  lie  made  clear  to  her  that  he  was  a  poor 
stranger  from  a  long  way  over  seas,  and  could  not  afford  to  go 
to  hostelries ;  that  he  only  wanted  to  lie  on  the  straw  in  the 
outhouse,  and  would  pay  her  a  quattrino  or  two  a-week  for 
that  shelter.  She  still  looked  at  him  dubiously,  shaking  her 
head  and  talking  low  to  herself ;  but  presently,  as  if  a  new 
thought  occurred  to  her,  she  fetched  a  hatchet  from  the  house, 
and,  showing  him  a  chump  that  lay  half  covered  with  litter  in 
a  corner,  asked  him  if  he  would  chop  that  up  for  her:  if  he 
would,  he  might  lie  in  the  outhouse  for  one  night.  He  agreed, 
and  Monna  Lisa  stood  with  her  arms  akimbo  to  watch  him, 
with  a  smile  of  gratified  cunning,  saying  low  to  herself  — 

“  It ’s  lain  there  ever  since  my  old  man  died.  What  then  ? 
I  might  as  well  have  put  a  stone  on  the  fire.  He  chops  very 
well,  though  he  does  speak  with  a  foreign  tongue,  and  looks 
odd.  I  could  n’t  have  got  it  done  cheaper.  And  if  he  only 
wants  a  bit  of  straw  to  lie  on,  I  might  make  him  do  an  errand 
or  two  up  and  down  the  hill.  Who  need  know  ?  And  sin 
that’s  hidden’s  half  forgiven.^  He’s  a  stranger:  he’ll  take 
no  notice  of  her.  And  I  ’ll  tell  her  to  keep  her  tongue  still.” 

The  antecedent  to  these  feminine  pronouns  had  a  pair  of 
blue  eyes,  which  at  that  moment  were  applied  to  a  large  round, 
hole  in  the  shutter  of  the  upper  window.  The  shutter  was 
closed,  not  for  any  penal  reasons,  but  because  only  the  oppo¬ 
site  window  had  the  luxury  of  glass  in  it:  the  weather  was 
not  warm,  and  a  round  hole  four  inches  in  diameter  served  all 
the  purposes  of  observation.  The  hole  was,  unfortunately,  a 
little  too  high,  and  obliged  the  small  observer  to  stand  on  a 
low  stool  of  a  rickety  character ;  but  Tessa  would  have  stood  a 
long  while  in  a  much  more  inconvenient  position  for  the  sake 
of  seeing  a  little  variety  in  her  life.  She  had  been  drawn  to 
the  opening  at  the  first  loud  tones  of  the  strange  voice  speak¬ 
ing  to  Monna  Lisa ;  and  darting  gently  across  her  room  every 
uow  and  then  to  peep  at  something,  she  continued  to  stand 
there  until  the  wood  had  been  chopped,  and  she  saw  Baldas- 
sarre  enter  the  outhouse,  as  the  dusk  was  gathering,  and  seat 
himself  on  the  straw. 

''  “  Peccato  celato  e  mezzo  perdonato.” 


BALDASSARRE  MAKES  AN  ACQUAINTANCE.  309 

A  great  temptation  had  laid  hold  of  Tessa’s  mind ;  she 
would  go  and  take  that  old  man  part  of  her  supper,  and  talk 
to  him  a  little.  He  was  not  deaf  like  Monna  Lisa,  and  besides 
she  could  say  a  great  many  things  to  him  that  it  was  no  use 
to  shout  at  Monna  Lisa,  who  knew  them  already.  And  he 
was  a  stranger  —  strangers  came  from  a  long  way  off  and  went 
away  again,  and  lived  nowhere  in  particular.  It  was  naughty, 
she  knew,  for  obedience  made  the  largest  part  in  Tessa’s  idea 
of  duty ;  but  it  would  be  something  to  confess  to  the  Padre 
next  Pasqua,  and  there  was  nothing  else  to  confess  except  going 
to  sleep  sometimes  over  her  beads,  and  being  a  little  cross  with 
Monna  Lisa  because  she  was  so  deaf ;  for  she  had  as  much 
idleness  as  she  liked  now,  and  was  never  frightened  into  telling 
white  lies.  She  turned  away  from  her  shutter  with  rather  an 
excited  expression  in  her  childish  face,  which  was  as  pretty 
and  pouting  as  ever.  Her  garb  was  still  that  of  a  simple  con- 
tadina,  but  of  a  contadina  prepared  for  a  festa :  her  gown  of 
dark-green  serge,  with  its  red  girdle,  was  very  clean  and  neat ; 
she  had  the  string  of  red  glass  beads  round  her  neck;  and  her 
brown  hair,  rough  from  curliness,  was  duly  knotted  up,  and 
fastened  with  the  silver  pin.  She  had  but  one  new  ornament, 
and  she  was  very  proud  of  it,  for  it  was  a  fine  gold  ring. 

Tessa  sat  on  the  low  stool,  nursing  her  knees,  for  a  minute 
or  two,  with  her  little  soul  poised  in  fluttering  excitement  on 
the  edge  of  this  pleasant  transgression.  It  was  quite  irresisti¬ 
ble.  She  had  been  commanded  to  make  no  acquaintances,  and 
warned  that  if  she  did,  all  her  new  happy  lot  would  vanish 
away,  and  be  like  a  hidden  treasure  that  turned  to  lead  as 
soon  as  it  was  brought  to  the  daylight ;  and  she  had  been  so 
obedient  that  when  she  had  to  go  to  church  she  had  kept  her 
face  shaded  by  her  hood  and  had  pursed  up  her  lips  quite 
tightly.  It  was  true  her  obedience  had  been  a  little  helped  by 
her  own  dread  lest  the  alarming  stepfather  Nofri  should  turn 
up  even  in  this  quarter,  so  far  from  the  Por’  del  Prato,  and 
beat  her  at  least,  if  he  did  not  drag  her  back  to  work  for  him. 
But  this  old  man  was  not  an  acquaintance  ;  he  was  a  poor 
stranger  going  to  sleep  in  the  outhouse,  and  he  probably  knew 
nothing  of  stepfather  Hofri;  and,  besides,  if  she  took  him 


310 


ROMOLA. 


some  supper,  he  would  like  her,  and  not  want  to  tell  anything 
about  her.  Monna  Lisa  would  say  she  must  not  go  and  talk 
to  him,  therefore  Monna  Lisa  must  not  be  consulted.  It  did 
not  signify  what  she  found  out  after  it  had  been  done. 

Supper  was  being  prepared,  she  knew  —  a  mountain  of 
macaroni  flavored  with  cheese,  fragrant  enough  to  tame  any 
stranger.  So  she  tripped  down-stairs  with  a  mind  full  of  deep 
designs,  and  first  asking  with  an  innocent  look  what  that  noise 
of  talking  had  been,  without  waiting  for  an  answer,  knit  her 
brow  with  a  peremptory  air,  something  like  a  kitten  trying  to 
be  formidable,  and  sent  the  old  woman  up-stairs ;  saying,  she 
chose  to  eat  her  supper  down  below.  In  three  minutes  Tessa, 
with  her  lantern  in  one  hand  and  a  wooden  bowl  of  macaroni 
in  the  other,  was  kicking  gently  at  the  door  of  the  outhouse  ; 
and  Baldassarre,  roused  from  sad  reverie,  doubted  in  the  first 
moment  whether  he  were  awake  as  he  opened  the  door  and 
saw  this  surprising  little  handmaid,  with  delight  in  her  wide 
eyes,  breaking  in  on  his  dismal  loneliness. 

‘‘I ’ve  brought  you  some  supper,”  she  said,  lifting  her 
mouth  towards  his  ear  and  shouting,  as  if  he  had  been  deaf 
like  Monna  Lisa.  “Sit  down  and  eat  it,  while  I  stay  with 
you.” 

Surprise  and  distrust  surmounted  every  other  feeling  in 
Baldassarre,  but  though  he  had  no  smile  or  word  of  gratitude 
ready,  there  could  not  be  any  impulse  to  push  away  this  visit¬ 
ant,  and  he  sank  down  passively  on  his  straw  again,  while 
Tessa  placed  herself  close  to  him,  put  the  wooden  bowl  on  his 
lap,  and  set  down  the  lantern  in  front  of  them,  crossing  her 
hands  before  her,  and  nodding  at  the  bowl  with  a  significant 
smile,  as  much  as  to  say,  “  Yes,  you  may  really  eat  it.”  For, 
in  the  excitement  of  carrying  out  her  deed,  she  had  forgotten 
her  previous  thought  that  the  stranger  would  not  be  deaf, 
and  had  fallen  into  her  habitual  alternative  of  dumb  show 
and  shouting. 

The  invitation  was  not  a  disagreeable  one,  for  he  had  been 
gnawing  a  remnant  of  dry  bread,  which  had  left  plenty  of 
appetite  for  anything  warm  and  relishing.  Tessa  watched  the 
disappearance  of  two  or  three  mouthfuls  without  speaking,  for 


BALDASSARRE  MAKES  AN  ACQUAINTANCE.  BU 

dbe  had  thought  his  eyes  rather  fierce  at  first ;  but  now  she 
ventured  to  put  her  mouth  to  his  ear  again  and  cry  — 

“  I  like  my  supper,  don’t  you  ?  ” 

It  was  not  a  smile,  but  rather  the  milder  look  of  a  dog 
touched  by  kindness,  but  unable  to  smile,  that  Baldassarre 
turned  on  this  round  blue-eyed  thing  that  was  caring  about 
him. 

“Yes,”  he  said;  “but  I  can  hear  well —  I ’m  not  deaf.” 

“  It  is  true ;  I  forgot,”  said  Tessa,  lifting  her  hands  and 
clasping  them.  “  But  Mouna  Lisa  is  deaf,  and  I  live  with  her. 
She ’s  a  kind  old  woman,  and  I ’m  not  frightened  at  her.  And 
we  live  very  well :  we  have  plenty  of  nice  things.  I  can  have 
nuts  if  I  like.  And  I ’m  not  obliged  to  work  now.  I  used  to 
have  to  work,  and  I  did  n’t  like  it ;  but  I  liked  feeding  the 
mules,  and  I  should  like  to  see  poor  Giannetta,  the  little  mule, 
again.  We ’ve  only  got  a  goat  and  two  kids,  and  I  used  to 
talk  to  the  goat  a  good  deal,  because  there  was  nobody  else  but 
IMonna  Lisa.  But  now  I ’ve  got  something  else  —  can  you 
guess  what  it  is  ?  ” 

She  drew  her  head  back,  and  looked  with  a  challenging  smile 
at  Baldassarre,  as  if  she  had  proposed  a  difficult  riddle  to  him. 

“No,”  said  he,  putting  aside  his  bowl,  and  looking  at  her 
dreamily.  It  seemed  as  if  this  young  prattling  thing  were 
some  memory  come  back  out  of  his  own  youth. 

“You  like  me  to  talk  to  you,  don’t  you  ?”  said  Tessa,  “but 
you  must  not  tell  anybody.  Shall  I  fetch  you  a  bit  of  cold 
sausage  ?  ” 

He  shook  his  head,  but  he  looked  so  mild  now  that  Tessa 
felt  quite  at  her  ease. 

“  Well,  then,  I ’ve  got  a  little  baby.  Such  a  pretty  bambi- 
netto,  with  little  fingers  and  nails  !  Not  old  yet;  it  was  born 
at  the  Nativitk,  Monna  Lisa  says.  I  was  married  one  Nativitii, 
a  long,  long  while  ago,  and  nobody  knew.  0  Santa  Madonna ! 
I  didn’t  mean  to  tell  you  that !  ” 

Tessa  set  up  her  shoulders  and  bit  her  lip,  looking  at  Bal¬ 
dassarre  as  if  this  betrayal  of  secrets  must  have  an  exciting 
effect  on  him  too.  But  he  seemed  not  to  care  much ;  and  peiv 
haps  that  was  in  the  nature  of  strangers. 


312 


ROMOLA. 


‘‘Yes/’  she  said,  carrying  on  her  thought  aloud,  “you  are 
a  stranger  j  you  don’t  live  anywhere  or  know  anybody,  do 
you  ?  ” 

“  No,”  said  Baldassarre,  also  thinking  aloud,  rather  than 
consciously  answering,  “  I  only  know  one  man.” 

“  His  name  is  not  Nofri,  is  it  ?  ”  said  Tessa,  anxiously. 

“No,”  said  Baldassarre,  noticing  her  look  of  fear.  “Is  that 
your  husband’s  name  ?  ” 

That  mistaken  supposition  was  very  amusing  to  Tessa.  She 
laughed  and  clapped  her  hands  as  she  said  — 

“  No,  indeed !  But  I  must  not  tell  you  anything  about  my 
husband.  You  would  never  think  what  he  is  —  not  at  all  like 
Nofri !  ” 

She  laughed  again  at  the  delightful  incongruity  between  the 
name  of  Nofri  —  which  was  not  separable  from  the  idea  of  the 
cross-grained  stepfather  —  and  the  idea  of  her  husband. 

“  But  I  don’t  see  him  very  often,”  she  went  on,  more  gravely. 
“And  sometimes  I  pray  to  the  Holy  Madonna  to  send  him 
oftener,  and  once  she  did.  But  I  must  go  back  to  my  bimbo 
now.  I  ’ll  bring  it  to  show  you  to-morrow.  You  would  lik^ 
to  see  it.  Sometimes  it  cries  and  makes  a  face,  but  only  when 
it’s  hungry,  Monna  Lisa  says.  You  wouldn’t  think  it,  but 
Monna  Lisa  had  babies  once,  and  they  are  all  dead  old  men. 
My  husband  says  she  will  never  die  now,  because  she ’s  so 
well  dried.  I ’m  glad  of  that,  for  I ’m  fond  of  her.  You 
would  like  to  stay  here  to-morrow,  should  n’t  you  ?  ” 

“I  should  like  to  have  this  place  to  come  and  rest  in, 
that ’s  all,”  said  Baldassarre.  “  I  would  pay  for  it,  and  harm 
nobody.” 

“No,  indeed;  I  think  you  are  not  a  bad  old  man.  But  you 
look  sorry  about  something.  Tell  me,  is  there  anything  you 
shall  cry  about  when  I  leave  you  by  yourself  ?  I  used  to  cry 
once.” 

“  No,  child ;  I  think  I  shall  cry  no  more.” 

“  That ’s  right ;  and  I  ’ll  bring  you  some  breakfast,  and  show 
you  the  bimbo.  Good-night.” 

Tessa  took  up  her  bowl  and  lantern,  and  closed  the  door  be¬ 
hind  her.  The  pretty  loving  apparition  had  been  no  more  to 


BALDASSARRE  MAKES  AN  ACQUAINTANCE.  813 

•X 

Baldassarre  than  a  faint  rainbow  on  the  blackness  to  the  man 
who  is  wrestling  in  deep  waters.  He  hardly  thought  of  her 
again  till  his  dreamy  waking  passed  into  the  more  vivid 
images  of  disturbed  sleep. 

But  Tessa  thought  much  of  him.  She  had  no  sooner  en¬ 
tered  the  house  than  she  told  Monna  Lisa  what  she  had  done, 
and  insisted  that  the  stranger  should  be  allowed  to  come  and 
rest  in  the  outhouse  when  he  liked.  The  old  woman,  who  had 
had  her  notions  of  making  him  a  useful  tenant,  made  a  great 
show  of  reluctance,  shook  her  head,  and  urged  that  Messer 
Naldo  would  be  angry  if  she  let  any  one  come  about  the  house. 
Tessa  did  not  believe  that.  Naldo  had  said  nothing  against 
strangers  who  lived  nowhere ;  and  this  old  man  knew  nobody 
except  one  person,  who  was  not  Nofri. 

^‘Well,”  conceded  Monna  Lisa,  at  last,  “if  I  let  him  stay 
for  a  while  and  carry  things  up  the  hill  for  me,  thou  must 
keep  thy  counsel  and  tell  nobody.’’ 

“No,”  said  Tessa,  “I’ll  only  tell  the  bimbo.” 

“And  then,”  Monna  Lisa  went  on,  in  her  thick  undertone, 
“  God  may  love  us  well  enough  not  to  let  Messer  Naldo  find 
out  anything  about  it.  For  he  never  comes  here  but  at  dark ; 
and  as  he  was  here  two  days  ago,  it ’s  likely  he  ’ll  never  come 
at  all  till  the  old  man ’s  gone  away  again.” 

“  Oh  me  !  Monna,”  said  Tessa,  clasping  her  hands,  “  I  wish 
Naldo  had  not  to  go  such  a  long,  long  way  sometimes  before 
he  comes  back  again.” 

“Ah,  child!  the  world’s  big,  they  say.  There  are  places 
behind  the  mountains,  and  if  people  go  night  and  day,  night 
and  day,  they  get  to  Lome,  and  see  the  Holy  Father.” 

Tessa  looked  submissive  in  the  presence  of  this  mystery, 
and  began  to  rock  her  baby,  and  sing  syllables  of  vague  loving 
meaning,  in  tones  that  imitated  a  triple  chime. 

The  next  morning  she  was  unusually  industrious  in  the 
prospect  of  more  dialogue,  and  of  the  pleasure  she  should  give 
the  poor  old  stranger  by  showing  him  her  baby.  But  before 
she  could  get  ready  to  take  Baldassarre  his  breakfast,  she 
found  that  iMonna  Lisa  had  been  employing  him  as  a  drawer 
of  water.  She  deferred  her  paternosters,  and  hurried  down 


1  314 


EOMOLA. 


to  insist  that  Baldassarre  should  sit  on  his  straw,  so  that  she 
might  come  and  sit  by  him  again  while  he  ate  his  breakfast. 
That  attitude  made  the  new  companionship  all  the  more  de¬ 
lightful  to  Tessa,  for  she  had  been  used  to  sitting  on  straw  in 
old  days  along  with  her  goats  and  mules. 

“  I  will  not  let  Monna  Lisa  give  you  too  much  work  to  do,” 
she  said,  bringing  him  some  steaming  broth  and  soft  bread. 

I  don’t  like  much  work,  and  I  dare  say  you  don’t.  I  like  sib 
ting  in  the  sunshine  and  feeding  things.  Monna  Lisa  says, 
work  is  good,  but  she  does  it  all  herself,  so  I  don’t  mind. 
She ’s  not  a  cross  old  woman ;  you  need  n’t  be  afraid  of  her 
being  cross.  And  now,  you  eat  that,  and  I  ’ll  go  and  fetch  my 
baby  and  show  it  you.” 

Presently  she-  came  back  with  the  small  mummy-case  in  her 
arms.  The  mummy  looked  very  lively,  having  unusually  large 
dark  eyes,  though  no  more  than  the  usual  indication  of  a  fu¬ 
ture  nose. 

“  This  is  my  baby,”  said  Tessa,  seating  herself  close  to 
Baldassarre.  ‘'You  didn’t  think  it  was  so  pretty,  did  you? 
It  is  like  the  little  Gesii,  and  I  should  think  the  Santa  Ma¬ 
donna  would  be  kinder  to  me  now,  is  it  not  true  ?  But  I  have 
not  much  to  ask  for,  because  I  have  everything  now  —  only 
that  I  should  see  my  husband  oftener.  You  may  hold  the  bam¬ 
bino  a  little  if  you  like,  but  I  think  you  must  not  kiss  him, 
because  you  might  hurt  him.” 

She  spoke  this  prohibition  in  a  tone  of  soothing  excuse,  and 
Baldassarre  could  not  refuse  to  hold  the  small  package.  “Poor 
thing  !  poor  thing  !  ”  he  said,  in  a  deep  voice  which  had  some¬ 
thing  strangely  threatening  in  its  apparent  pity.  It  did  not 
seem  to  him  as  if  this  guileless  loving  little  woman  eould  rec¬ 
oncile  him  to  the  world  at  all,  but  rather  that  she  was  with 
him  against  the  world,  that  she  was  a  ereature  who  would 
need  to  be  avenged. 

“  Oh,  don’t  you  be  sorry  for  me,”  she  said ;  “  for  though  I 
don’t  see  him  often,  he  is  more  beautiful  and  good  than  any¬ 
body  else  in  the  world.  I  say  prayers  to  him  when  he’s 
away.  You  coiild  n’t  think  what  he  is  !  ” 

She  looked  at  Baldassarre  with  a  wide  glance  of  mysterious 


NO  PLACE  FOR  REPENTANCE. 


315 


meaning,  taking  the  baby  from  him  again,  and  almost  wishing 
he  would  question  her  as  if  he  wanted  very  mueh  to  know 
more.  “  Yes,  I  could,”  said  Baldassarre,  rather  bitterly. 

“  No,  I ’m  sure  you  never  could,”  said  Tessa,  earnestly. 
“  You  thought  he  might  be  Nofri,”  she  added,  with  a  trium¬ 
phant  air  of  conclusiveness.  “  But  never  mind ;  you  could  n’t 
know.  What  is  your  name  ?  ” 

He  rubbed  his  hand  over  his  knitted  brow,  then  looked  at 
her  blankly  and  said,  Ah,  child,  what  is  it  ?  ” 

It  was  not  that  he  did  not  often  remember  his  name  well 
enough  ;  and  if  he  had  had  presence  of  mind  now  to  remember 
it,  he  would  have  chosen  not  to  tell  it.  But  a  sudden  question 
appealing  to  his  memory,  had  a  paralyzing  effect,  and  in  that 
moment  he  was  conscious  of  nothing  but  helplessness. 

Ignorant  as  Tessa  was,  the  pity  stirred  in  her  by  his  blank 
look  taught  her  to  say  — 

“  Never  mind ;  you  are  a  stranger,  it  is  no  matter  about 
your  having  a  name.  Good-by  now,  because  I  want  my  break¬ 
fast.  You  will  come  here  and  rest  when  you  like ;  Mona 
Lisa  says  you  may.  And  don’t  you  be  unhappy,  for  we  ’ll  be 
good  to  you.” 

“Poor  thing  !  ”  said  Baldassarre  again. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

NO  PLACK  FOR  REPENTANCE. 

Messer  Naldo  came  again  sooner  than  was  .expected :  he 
came  on  the  evening  of  the  28th  of  November  only  eleven 
days  after  his  previous  visit,  proving  that  he  had  not  gone 
far  beyond  the  mountains ;  and  a  scene  which  we  have 
witnessed  as  it  took  place  that  evening  in  the  Via  de’  Bardi 
may  help  to  explain  the  impulse  which  turned  his  steps 
towards  the  hill  of  San  Giorgio. 


ROMOLA. 


‘316 

When  Tito  had  first  found  this  home  for  Tessa,  on  his  re* 
turn  from  Rome,  more  than  a  year  and  a  half  ago,  he  had 
acted,  he  persuaded  himself,  simply  under  the  constraint  im¬ 
posed  on  him  by  his  own  kindliness  after  the  unlucky  incident 
which  had  made  foolish  little  Tessa  imagine  him  to  be  her 
husband.  It  was  true  that  the  kindness  was  manifested 
towards  a  pretty  trusting  thing  whom  it  was  impossible  to  be 
near  without  feeling  inclined  to  caress  and  pet  her  ;  but  it  was 
not  less  true  that  Tito  had  movements  of  kindness  towards 
her  apart  from  any  contemplated  gain  to  himself.  Otherwise, 
charming  as  her  prettiness  and  prattle  were  in  a  lazy  moment, 
he  might  have  preferred  to  be  free  from  her ;  for  he  was  not 
in  love  with  Tessa  —  he  was  in  love  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life  with  an  entirely  different  woman,  whom  he  was  not  simply 
inclined  to  shower  caresses  on,  but  whose  presence  possessed 
him  so  that  the  simple  sweep  of  her  long  tresses  across  his 
cheek  seemed  to  vibrate  through  the  hours.  All  the  young 
ideal  passion  he  had  in  him  had  been  stirred  by  Roinola,  and 
hm  fibre  was  too  fine,  his  intellect  too  bright,  for  him  to  be 
tempted  into  the  habits  of  a  gross  pleasure-seeker.  But  he 
had  spun  a  web  about  himself  and  Tessa,  which  he  felt*  in¬ 
capable  of  breaking  :  in  the  first  moments  after  the  mimic 
marriage  he  had  been  prompted  to  leave  her  under  an  illusion 
by  a  distinct  calculation  of  his  own  possible  need,  but  since 
ihat  critical  moment  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  web  had  gone 
on  spinning  itself  in  spite  of  him,  like  a  growth  over  which  he 
had  no  power.  The  elements  of  kindness  and  self-indulgence 
are  hard  to  distinguish  in  a  soft  nature  like  Tito’s ;  and  the 
annoyance  he  had  felt  under  Tessa’s  pursuit  of  him  on  the  day 
of  his  betrothal,  the  thorough  intention  of  revealing  the  truth 
to  her  with  which  he  set  out  to  fulfil  his  promise  of  seeing  her 
again,  were  a  sufficiently  strong  argument  to  him  that  in  ulti¬ 
mately  leaving  Tessa  under  her  illusion  and  providing  a  home 
for  her,  he  had  been  overcome  by  his  own  kindness.  And  in 
these  days  of  his  first  devotion  to  Romola  he  needed  a  self- 
justifying  argument.  He  had  learned  to  be  glad  that  she  was 
deceived  about  some  things.  But  every  strong  feeling  makes 
to  itself  a  conscience  of  its  own,  —  has  its  own  piety  ;  just  aa 


NO  PLACE  FOR  REPENTANCE. 


317 


much  as  the  feeling  of  the  son  towards  the  mother,  which  will 
sometimes  survive  amid  the  worst  fumes  of  depravation ;  and 
Tito  could  not  yet  be  easy  in  committing  a  secret  offence 
against  his  wedded  love. 

But  he  was  all  the  more  careful  in  taking  precautions  to 
preserve  the  secrecy  of  the  offence.  Monna  Lisa,  who,  like 
many  of  her  class,  never  left  her  habitation  except  to  go  to 
one  or  two  particular  shops,  and  to  confession  once  a-year, 
knew  nothing  of  his  real  name  and  whereabout :  she  only  knew 
that  he  paid  her  so  as  to  make  her  very  comfortable,  and 
minded  little  about  the  rest,  save  that  she  got  fond  of  Tessa, 
and  found  pleasure  in  the  cares  for  which  she  was  paid.  There 
was  some  mystery  behind,  clearly,  since  Tessa  was  a  contadina, 
and  Messer  Naldo  was  a  signor ;  but,  for  aught  Monna  Lisa 
knew,  he  might  be  a  real  husband.  For  Tito  had  thoroughly 
frightened  Tessa  into  silence  about  the  circumstances  of  their 
marriage,  by  telling  her  that  if  she  broke  that  silence  she 
would  never  see  him  again  ;  and  Monna  Lisa’s  deafness,  which 
made  it  impossible  to  say  anything  to  her  without  some  pre¬ 
meditation,  had  saved  Tessa  from  any  incautious  revelation  to 
her,  such  as  had  run  off  her  tongue  in  talking  with  Baldassarre, 
For  a  long  while  Tito’s  visits  were  so  rare,  that  it  seemed  likely 
enough  he  took  journeys  between  them.  They  were  prompted 
chiefly  by  the  desire  to  see  that  all  things  were  going  on  well 
with  Tessa ;  and  though  he  always  found  his  visit  pleas¬ 
anter  than  the  prospect  of  it  —  always  felt  anew  the  charm  of 
that  pretty  ignorant  lovingness  and  trust  —  he  had  not  yet  any 
real  need  of  it.  But  he  was  determined,  if  possible,  to  pre¬ 
serve  the  simplicity  on  which  the  charm  depended ;  to  keep 
Tessa  a  genuine  contadina,  and  not  place  the  small  field-flower 
among  conditions  that  would  rob  it  of  its  grace.  He  would 
have  been  shocked  to  see  her  in  the  dress  of  any  other  rank 
than  her  own;  the  piquancy  of  her  talk  w^ould  be  all  gone,  if 
things  began  to  have  new  relations  for  her,  if  her  world  be¬ 
came  wider,  her  pleasures  less  childish  ;  and  the  squirrel-like 
enjoyment  of  nuts  at  discretion  marked  the  standard  of  the 
luxuries  he  had  provided  for  her.  By  this  means,  Tito  saveb 
Tessa’s  charm  from  being  sullied  ;  and  he  also,  by  a  con- 


318 


ROMOLA. 


veiiieiit  coincidence,  saved  himself  from  aggravating  expenses 
that  were  already  rather  importunate  to  a  man  whose  money 
was  all  required  for  his  avowed  habits  of  life. 

This,  in  brief,  had  been  the  history  of  Tito’s  relation  to 
Tessa  up  to  a  very  recent  date.  It  is  true  that  once  or  twice 
before  Bardo’s  death,  the  sense  that  there  was  Tessa  up  the 
hill,  with  whom  it  was  possible  to  pass  an  hour  agreeably,  had 
been  an  inducement  to  him  to  eScape  from  a  little  weariness 
of  the  old  man,  when,  for  lack  of  any  positive  engagement,  he 
might  otherwise  have  borne  the  weariness  patiently  and  shared 
Romola’s  burden. ,  But  the  moment  when  he  had  first  felt  a 
real  hunger  for  Tessa’s  ignorant  lovingness  and  belief  in  him 
had  not  come  till  quite  lately,  and  it  was  distinctly  marked 
out  by  circumstances  as  little  to  be  forgotten  as  the  oncoming 
of  a  malady  that  has  permanently  vitiated  the  sight  and  hear^ 
ing.  It  was  the  day  when  he  had  first  seen  Baldassarre,  and 
had  bought  the  armor.  Returning  across  the  bridge  that 
night,  with  the  coat  of  mail  in  his  hands,  he  had  felt  an  un¬ 
conquerable  shrinking  from  an  immediate  encounter  with 
Romola.  She,  too,  knew  little  of  the  actual  world  ;  she,  too, 
trusted  him  ;  but  he  had  an  uneasy  consciousness  that  behind 
her  frank  eyes  there  was  a  nature  that  could  judge  him,  and 
that  any  ill-founded  trust  of  hers  sprang  not  from  pretty 
brute-like  incapacity,  but  from  a  nobleness  which  might  prove 
an  alarming  touchstone.  He  wanted  a  little  ease,  a  little  re¬ 
pose  from  self-control,  after  the  agitation  and  exertions  of  the 
day;  he  wanted  to  be  where  he  could  adjust  his  mind  to  the 
morrow,  without  caring  how  he  behaved  at  the  present  mo¬ 
ment.  And  there  was  a  sweet  adoring  creature  within  reach 
whose  presence  was  as  safe  and  unconstraining  as  that  of  her 
own  kids,  —  who  would  believe  any  fable,  and  remain  quite 
unimpressed  by  public  opinion.  And  so  on  that  evening,  when 
Romola  was  waiting  and  listening  for  him,  he  turned  his  steps 
up  the  hill. 

No  wonder,  then,  that  the  steps  took  the  same  course  on 
this  evening,  eleven  days  later,  when  he  had  had  to  recoil 
under  Romola’s  first  outburst  of  scorn.  He  could  not  wish 
Tessa  in  his  wife’s  place,  or  refrain  from  wishing  that  his  wife 


NO  PLACE  FOR  REPENTANCE. 


319 


should  be  thoroughly  reconciled  to  him  j  for  it  was  Romola, 
and  not  Tessa,  that  belonged  to  the  world  where  all  the  larger 
desires  of  a  man  who  had  ambition  and  effective  faculties 
must  necessarily  lie.  But  he  wanted  a  refuge  from  a  standard 
disagreeably  rigorous,  of  which  he  could  not  make  himself  in¬ 
dependent  simply  by  thinking  it  folly  3  and  Tessa’s  little  soui 
was  that  inviting  refuge. 

It  was  not  much  more  than  eight  o’clock  when  he  went  up 
the  stone  steps  to  the  door  of  Tessa’s  room.  Usually  she 
heard  his  entrance  into  the  house,  and  ran  to  meet  him,  but 
not  to-night ;  and  when  he  opened  the  door  he  saw  the  reason. 
A  single  dim  light  was  burning  above  the  dying  fire,  and 
showed  Tessa  in  a  kneeling  attitude  by  the  head  of  the  bed 
where  the  baby  lay.  Her  head  had  fallen  aside  on  the  pillow, 
and  her  brown  rosary,  which  usually  hung  above  the  pillow 
over  the  picture  of  the  Madonna  and  the  golden  palm-branches, 
lay  in  the  loose  grasp  of  her  right  hand.  She  had  gone  fast 
asleep  over  her  beads.  Tito  stepped  lightly  across  the  little 
room,  and  sat  down  close  to  her.  She  had  probably  heard  the 
opening  of  the  door  as  part  of  her  dream,  for  he  had  not  been 
looking  at  her  two  moments  before  she  opened  her  eyes.  She 
opened  them  without  any  start,  and  remained  q^uite  motionless 
looking  at  him,  as  if  the  sense  that  he  was  there  smiling  at 
her  shut  out  any  impulse  which  could  disturb  that  happy  pas¬ 
siveness.  But  when  he  put  his  hand  under  her  chin,  and 
stooped  to  kiss  her,  she  said  — 

“I  dreamed  it,  and  then  I  said  it  was  dreaming  —  and  then 
I  awoke,  and  it  was  true.” 

“Little  sinner!”  said  Tito,  pinching  her  chin,  “you  have 
not  said  half  your  prayers.  I  will  punish  you  by  not  looking 
at  your  baby;  it  is  ugly.” 

Tessa  did  not  like  those  words,  even  though  Tito  was  smil¬ 
ing.  She  had  some  pouting  distress  in  her  face,  as  she  said, 
bending  anxiously  over  the  baby  — 

“Ah,  it  is  not  true!  He  is  prettier  than  anything,  You 
do  not  think  he  is  ugly.  You  will  look  at  him.  He  is  even 
prettier  than  when  you  saw  him  before  —  only  he ’s  asleep, 
and  you  can’t  see  his  eyes  or  his  tongue,  and  I  can’t  show  you 


320 


ROMOLA. 


his  hair  —  and  it  grows  —  is  n’t  that  wonderful  ?  Look  at 
him!  It’s  true  his  face  is  very  much  all  alike  when  he’s 
asleep,  there  is  not  so  much  to  see  as  when  he ’s  awake.  If 
you  kiss  him  very  gently,  he  won’t  wake :  you  want  to  kiss 
him,  is  it  not  true  ?  ” 

He  satisfied  her  by  giving  the  small  mummy  a  butterfly  kiss, 
and  then  putting  his  hand  on  her  shoulder  and  turning  her 
face  towards  him,  said,  “  You  like  looking  at  the  baby  better 
than  looking  at  your  husband,  you  false  one  !  ” 

She  was  still  kneeling,  and  now  rested  her  hands  on  his 
knee,  looking  up  at  him  like  one  of  Fra  Lippo  Lippi’s  round¬ 
cheeked  adoring  angels. 

“No,”  she  said,  shaking  her  head ;  “I  love  you  always  best, 
only  I  want  you  to  look  at  the  bambino  and  love  him ;  I  used 
only  to  want  you  to  love  me.” 

“And  did  you  expect  me  to  come  again  so  soon?”  said 
Tito,  inclined  to  make  her  prattle.  He  still  felt  the  effects  of 
the  agitation  he  had  undergone  — still  felt  like  a  man  who  has 
been  violently  jarred;  and  this  was  the  easiest  relief  from 
silence  and  solitude. 

“  Ah,  no,”  said  Tessa,  “  I  have  counted  the  days  —  to-day  I 
began  at  my  right  thumb  again  —  since  you  put  on  the  beautiful 
chain-coat,  that  Messer  San  Michele  gave  you  to  take  care  of 
you  on  your  journey.  And  you  have  got  it  on  now,”  she 
said,  peeping  through  the  opening  in  the  breast  of  his  tunic. 
“  Perhaps  it  made  you  come  back  sooner.” 

“  Perhaps  it  did,  Tessa,”  he  said.  “  But  don’t  mind  the  coat 
now.  Tell  me  what  has  happened  since  I  was  here.  Did 
you  see  the  tents  in  the  Prato,  and  the  soldiers  and  horsemen 
when  they  passed  the  bridges  —  did  you  hear  the  drums  and 
trumpets  ?  ” 

“Yes,  and  I  was  rather  frightened,  because  I  thought  the 
soldiers  might  come  up  here.  And  Monna  Lisa  was  a  little 
afraid  too,  for  she  said  they  might  carry  our  kids  off;  she  said 
it  was  their  business  to  do  mischief.  But  the  Holy  Madonna 
took  care  of  us,  for  we  never  saw  one  of  them  up  here.  But 
something  has  happened,  only  I  hardly  dare  tell  you,  and  that 
is  what  I  was  saying  more  Aves  for.” 


NO  PLACE  FOli  REPENTANCE. 


321 


What  do  you  mean,  Tessa  ?  ”  said  Tito,  rather  anxiously. 
“  Make  haste  and  tell  me.” 

“Yes,  but  will  you  let  me  sit  on  your  knee  ?  because  then  I 
think  I  shall  not  be  so  frightened.” 

He  took  her  on  his  knee,  and  put  his  arm  round  her,  but 
looked  grave  :  it  seemed  that  something  unpleasant  must  pursue 
him  even  here. 

“  At  first  I  did  n’t  mean  to  tell  you,”  said  Tessa,  speaking 
almost  in  a  whisper,  as  if  that  would  mitigate  the  offence ; 
“  because  we  thought  the  old  man  would  be  gone  away  before 
you  came  again,  and  it  would  be  as  if  it  had  not  been.  But 
now  he  is  there,  and  you  are  come,  and  I  never  did  anything 
you  told  me  not  to  do  before.  And  I  want  to  tell  you,  and 
then  you  will  perhaps  forgive  me,  for  it  is  a  long  while  before 
I  go  to  confession.” 

“Yes,  tell  me  everything,  my  Tessa.”  He  began  to  hope  it 
was  after  all  a  trivial  matter. 

“  Oh,  you  will  be  sorry  for  him :  I ’m  afraid  he  cries  about 
something  when  I  don’t  see  him.  But  that  was  not  the  reason 
I  went  to  him  first ;  it  was  because  I  wanted  to  talk  to  him  and 
show  him  my  baby,  and  he  was  a  stranger  that  lived  nowhere, 
and  I  thought  you  would  n’t  care  so  much  about  my  talking  to 
him.  And  I  think  he  is  not  a  bad  old  man,  and  he  wanted 
to  come  and  sleep  on  the  straw  next  to  the  goats,  and  I  made 
Monna  Lisa  say,  ‘Yes,  he  might,’  and  he’s  away  all  the  day 
almost,  but  when  he  comes  back  I  talk  to  him,  and  take  him 
something  to  eat.” 

“  Some  beggar,  I  suppose.  It  was  naughty  of  you,  Tessa, 
and  I  am  angry  with  Monna  Lisa.  I  must  have  him  sent 
away.” 

“No,  T  think  he  is  not  a  beggar,  for  he  wanted  to  pay  Monna 
Lisa,  only  she  asked  him  to  do  work  for  her  instead.  And  he 
gets  himself  shaved,  and  his  clothes  are  tidy :  Monna  Lisa 
says  he  is  a  decent  man.  But  sometimes  I  think  he  is  not  in 
his  right  mind  :  Lupo,  at  Peretola,  was  not  in  his  right  mind, 
and  he  looks  a  little  like  Lupo  sometimes,  as  if  he  did  n’t  know 
ivhere  he  was.” 

“What  sort  of  face  has  he  ?  ”  said  Tito,  his  heart  beginning 

21 


VOL.  V. 


S22 


ROMOLA. 


to  beat  strangely.  He  was  so  haunted  by  the  thought  oi 
Baldassarre,  that  it  was  already  he  whom  he  saw  in  imagina* 
tion  sitting  on  the  straw  not  many  yards  from  him.  “Fetch 
your  stool,  my  Tessa,  and  sit  on  it.” 

“  Shall  you  not  forgive  me  ?  ”  she  said,  timidly,  moving  from 
his  knee. 

“Yes,  I  will  not  be  angry  —  only  sit  down,  and  tell  me  what 
sort  of  old  man  this  is.” 

“  I  can’t  think  how  to  tell  you :  he  is  not  like  my  stepfather 
Nofri,  or  anybody.  His  face  is  yellow,  and  he  has  deep  marks 
in  it ;  and  his  hair  is  white,  but  there  is  none  on  the  top  of  his 
head  :  and  his  eyebrows  are  black,  and  he  looks  from  under 
them  at  me,  and  says,  ‘  Poor  thing !  ’  to  me,  as  if  he  thought  I 
was  beaten  as  I  used  to  be ;  and  that  seems  as  if  he  could  n’t 
be  in  his  right  mind,  does  n’t  it  ?  And  I  asked  him  his  name 
once,  but  he  could  n’t  tell  it  me  :  yet  everybody  has  a  name  — 
is  it  not  true  ?  And  he  has  a  book  now,  and  keeps  looking  at 
it  ever  so  long,  as  if  he  were  a  Padre.  But  I  think  he  is  not 
saying  prayers,  for  his  lips  never  move ;  —  ah,  you  are  angry 
with  me,  or  is  it  because  you  are  sorry  for  the  old  man  ?  ” 

Tito’s  eyes  were  still  fixed  on  Tessa ;  but  he  had  ceased  to 
see  her,  and  was  only  seeing  the  objects  her  words  suggested. 
It  was  this  absent  glance  which  frightened  her,  and  she  could 
not  help  going  to  kneel  at  his  side  again.  But  he  did  not  heed 
her,  and  she  dared  not  touch  him,  or  speak  to  him  ;  she  knelt, 
trembling  and  wondering ;  and  this  state  of  mind  suggesting 
her  beads  to  her,  she  took  them  from  the  floor,  and  began  to 
tell  them  again,  her  pretty  lips  moving  silently,  and  her  blue 
eyes  wide  with  anxiety  and  struggling  tears. 

Tito  was  quite  unconscious  of  her  movements  —  unconscious 
of  his  own  attitude :  he  was  in  that  rapt  state  in  which  a 
man  will  grasp  painful  roughness,  and  press  and  press  it 
closer,  and  never  feel  it.  A  new  possibility  had  risen  before 
him,  which  might  dissolve  at  once  the  wretched  conditions  of 
fear  and  suppression  that  were  marring  his  life.  Destiny  had 
brought  within  his  reach  an  opportunity  of  retrieving  that 
moment  on  the  steps  of  the  Duomo,  when  the  Past  had  grasped 
him  with  living  quivering  hands,  and  he  had  disowned  it.  A 


NO  PLACE  FOE  REPENTANCE. 


823 


few  steps,  and  he  might  be  face  to  face  with  his  father,  with 
no  witness  by ;  he  might  seek  forgiveness  and  reconciliation ; 
and  there  was  money  now,  from  the  sale  of  the  library,  to 
enable  them  to  leave  Florence  without  disclosure,  and  go  into 
Southern  Italy,  where  under  the  probable  French  rule,  he  had 
already  laid  a  foundation  for  patronage.  Rornola  need  never 
know  the  whole  truth,  for  she  could  have  no  certain  means  of 
identifying  that  prisoner  in  the  Duomo  with  Baldassarre,  or 
of  learning  what  had  taken  place  on  the  steps,  except  from 
Baldassarre  himself ;  and  if  his  father  forgave,  he  would  also 
consent  to  bury,  that  offence. 

But  with  this  possibility  of  relief,  by  an  easy  spring,  from 
present  evil,  there  rose  the  other  possibility,  that  the  fierce- 
hearted  man  might  refuse  to  be  propitiated.  Well  —  and  if 
he  did,  things  would  only  be  as  they  had  been  before  ;  for  there 
v/ould  be  no  vntness  by.  It  was  not  repentance  with  a  white 
sheet  round  it  and  taper  in  hand,  confessing  its  hated  sin  in 
the  eyes  of  men,  that  Tito  was  preparing  for ;  it  was  a  repent¬ 
ance  that  would  make  all  things  pleasant  again,  and  keep  all 
past  unpleasant  things  secret.  And  Tito’s  soft-heartedness, 
his  indisposition  to  feel  himself  in  harsh  relations  with  any 
creature,  was  in  strong  activity  towards  his  father,  now  his 
father  was  brought  near  to  him.  It  would  be  a  state  of  ease 
that  his  nature  could  not  but  desire,  if  the  poisonous  hatred  in 
Baldassarre’s  glance  could  be  replaced  by  something  of  the 
old  affection  and  complacency. 

Tito  longed  to  have  his  world  once  again  completely  cush¬ 
ioned  with  good-will,  and  longed  for  it  the  more  eagerly 
because  of  what  he  had  just  suffered  from  the  collision  with 
Rornola.  It  was  not  difficult  to  him  to  smile  pleadingly  on 
those  whom  he  had  injured,  and  offer  to  do  them  much  kind¬ 
ness  :  and  no  quickness  of  intellect  could  tell  him  exactly  the 
taste  of  that  honey  on  the  lips  of  the  injured.  The  opportu¬ 
nity  was  there,  and  it  raised  an  inclination  which  hemmed  in 
the  calculating  activity  of  his  thought.  He  started  up,  and 
stepped  towards  the  door ;  but  Tessa’s  cry,  as  she  dropped 
her  beads,  roused  him  from  his  absorption.  He  turned  and 
said — 


324 


ROMOLA. 


“  My  Tessa,  get  me  a  lantern ;  and  don’t  cry,  little  pigeon, 
1  am  not  angry,” 

They  went  down  the  stairs,  and  Tessa  was  going  to  shout 
the  need  of  the  lantern  in  Monna  Lisa’s  ear,  when  Tito,  who 
had  opened  the  door,  said,  “  Stay,  Tessa  —  no,  I  want  no 
lantern  :  go  up-stairs  again,  and  keep  quiet,  and  say  nothing 
to  Monna  Lisa.” 

In  half  a  minute  he  stood  before  the  closed  door  of  the 
outhouse,  where  the  moon  was  shining  white  on  the  old  paint¬ 
less  wood. 

In  this  last  decisive  moment,  Tito  felt  a  tremor  upon  him  — 
a  sudden  instinctive  shrinking  from  a  possible  tiger-glance,  a 
possible  tiger-leap.  Yet  why  should  he,  a  young  man,  be 
afraid  of  an  old  one  ?  a  young  man  with  armor  on,  of  an  old 
man  without  a  weapon  ?  It  was  but  a  moment’s  hesitation, 
and  Tito  laid  his  hand  on  the  door.  Was  his  father  asleep? 
Was  there  nothing  else  but  the  door  that  screened  him  from 
the  voice  and  the  glance  which  no  magic  could  turn  into 
ease  ? 

Baldassarre  was  not  asleep.  There  was  a  square  opening 
high  in  the  wall  of  the  hovel,  through  which  the  moonbeams 
sent  in  a  stream  of  pale  light ;  and  if  Tito  could  have  looked 
through  the  opening,  he  would  have  seen  his  father  seated  on 
the  straw,  with  something  that  shone  like  a  white  star  in  his 
hand.  Baldassarre  was  feeling  the  edge  of  his  poniard,  taking 
refuge  in  that  sensation  from  a  hopeless  blank  of  thought  that 
seemed  to  lie  like  a  great  gulf  between  his  passion  and  its 
aim. 

He  was  in  one  of  his  most  wretched  moments  of  conscious 
helplessness  •  he  had  been  poring,  while  it  was  light,  over  the 
book  that  lay  open  beside  him ;  then  he  had  been  trying  to 
recall  the  names  of  his  jewels,  and  the  symbols  engraved  on 
them  ;  and  though  at  certain  other  times  he  had  recovered 
some  of  those  names  and  symbols,  to-night  they  were  all  gone 
into  darkness.  And  this  effort  at  inward  seeing  had  seemed 
to  end  in  utter  paralysis  of  memory.  He  was  reduced  to  a 
sort  of  mad  consciousness  that  he  was  a  solitary  pulse  of  just 
rage  in  a  world  filled  with  defiant  baseness.  He  had  clutched 


NO  PLACE  FOR  REPENTANCE. 


825 


and  unsheathed  his  dagger,  and  for  a  long  while  had  been 
feeling  its  edge,  his  mind  narrowed  to  one  image,  and  the 
dream  of  one  sensation  —  the  sensation  of  plunging  that  dagger 
into  a  base  heart,  which  he  was  unable  to  pierce  in  any  other 
way. 

Tito  had  his  hand  on  the  door  and  was  pulling  it :  it  dragged 
against  the  ground  as  such  old  doors  often  do,  and  Baldassarre, 
startled  out  of  his  dreamlike  state,  rose  from  his  sitting 
posture  in  vague  amazement,  not  knowing  where  he  was.  He 
had  not  yet  risen  to  his  feet,  and  was  still  kneeling  on  one 
knee,  when  the  door  came  wide  open  and  he  saw,  dark  against 
the  moonlight,  with  the  rays  falling  on  one  bright  mass  of 
curls  and  one  rounded  olive  cheek,  the  image  of  his  reverie  — 
not  shadowy  —  close  and  real  like  water  at  the  lips  after  the 
thirsty  dream  of  it.  No  thought  could  come  athwart  that 
eager  thirst.  In  one  moment,  before  Tito  could  start  back, 
the  old  man,  with  the  preternatural  force  of  rage  in  his  limbs, 
had  sprung  forward,  and  the  dagger  had  flashed  out.  In  the 
next  moment  the  dagger  had  snapped  in  two,  and  Baldassarre, 
under  the  parrying  force  of  Tito’s  arm,  had  fallen  back  on  the 
straw,  clutching  the  hilt  with  its  bit  of  broken  blade.  The 
pointed  end  lay  shining  against  Tito’s  feet. 

Tito  had  felt  one  great  heart-leap  of  terror  as  he  had  stag¬ 
gered  under  the  weight  of  the  thrust :  he  felt  now  the  triumph 
of  deliverance  and  safety.  His  armor  had  been  proved,  and 
vengeance  lay  helpless  before  him.  But  the  triumph  raised  no 
devilish  impulse  ;  on  the  contrary,  the  sight  of  his  father  close 
to  him  and  unable  to  injure  him,  made  the  effort  at  reconcilia¬ 
tion  easier.  He  was  free  from  fear,  but  he  had  only  the  more 
unmixed  and  direct  want  to  be  free  from  the  sense  that  he 
was  hated.  After  they  had  looked  at  each  other  a  little  while, 
Baldassarre  lying  motionless  in  despairing  rage,  Tito  said  in 
his  soft  tones,  just  as  they  had  sounded  before  the  last  parting 
on  the  shores  of  Greece  — 

Padre  mio  !  ”  There  was  a  pause  after  those  words,  but 
no  movement  or  sound  till  he  said  — 

‘‘  I  came  to  ask  your  forgiveness  !  ” 

Again  he  paused,  that  the  healing  balm  of  those  words 


326 


ROMOLA. 


might  have  time  to  work.  But  there  was  no  sign  of  change 
in  Baldassarre  :  he  lay  as  he  had  fallen,  leaning  on  one  arm : 
he  was  trembling,  but  it  was  from  the  shock  that  had  thrown 
him  down. 

“  I  was  taken  by  surprise  that  morning,  I  wish  now  to  be 
a  son  to  you  again.  I  wish  to  make  the  rest  of  your  life 
happy,  that  you  may  forget  what  you  have  suffered.” 

He  paused  again.  He  had  used  the  clearest  and  strongest 
words  he  could  think  of.  It  was  useless  to  say  more,  until  he 
had  some  sign  that  Baldassarre  understood  him.  Perhaps  his 
mind  was  too  distempered  or  too  imbecile  even  for  that :  per¬ 
haps  the  shock  of  his  fall  and  his  disappointed  rage  might 
have  quite  suspended  the  use  of  his  faculties. 

Presently  Baldassarre  began  to  move.  He  threw  away  the 
broken  dagger,  and  slowly  and  gradually,  still  trembling, 
began  to  raise  himself  from  the  gx’ound.  Tito  put  out  his 
hand  to  help  him,  and  so  strangely  quick  are  men’s  souls  that 
ill  this  moment,  when  he  began  to  feel  his  atonement  was 
accepted,  he  had  a  darting  thought  of  the  irksome  efforts  it 
entailed.  Baldassarre  clutched  the  hand  that  was  held  out, 
raised  himself  and  clutched  it  still,  going  close  up  to  Tito  till 
their  faces  were  not  a  foot  off  each  other.  Then  he  began  to 
speak,  in  a  deep  trembling  voice  — 

“  I  saved  you  —  I  nurtured  you  —  I  loved  you.  You  for¬ 
sook  me  —  you  robbed  me  —  you  denied  me.  What  can  you 
give  me  ?  You  have  made  the  world  bitterness  to  me;  but 
there  is  one  draught  of  sweetness  left  —  that  you  shall  know 
agony  P 

He  let  fall  Tito’s  hand,  and  going  backwards  a  little,  first 
rested  his  arm  on  a  projecting  stone  in  the  wall,  and  then  sank 
again  in  a  sitting  posture  on  the  straw.  The  outleap  of  fury 
in  the  dagger-thrust  had  evidently  exhausted  him. 

Tito  stood  silent.  If  it  had  been  a  deep  yearning  emotion 
which  had  brought  him  to  ask  his  father’s  forgiveness,  the 
denial  of  it  might  have  caused  him  a  pang  which  would  have 
excluded  the  rushing  train  of  thought  that  followed  those 
decisive  words.  As  it  was,  though  the  sentence  of  unchange¬ 
able  hatred  grated  on  him  and  jarred  him  terribly,  his  mind 


NO  PLACE  FOR  REPENTANCE. 


827 


glanced  round  with  a  self-preserving  instinct  to  see  how  fai 
those  words  could  have  the  force  of  a  substantial  threat.  When 
he  had  come  down  to  speak  to  Baldassarre,  he  had  said  to 
himself  that  if  his  effort  at  reconciliation  failed,  things  would 
only  be  as  they  had  been  before.  The  first  glance  of  his 
mind  was  backward  to  that  thought  again,  but  the  future 
possibilities  of  danger  that  were  conjured  up  along  with  it 
brought  the  perception  that  things  were  not  as  they  had  been 
before,  and  the  perception  came  as  a  triumphant  relief.  There 
was  not  only  the  broken  dagger,  there  was  the  certainty,  from 
what  Tessa  had  told  him,  that  Baldassarre’s  mind  was  broken 
too,  and  had  no  edge  that  could  reach  him.  Tito  felt  he  had 
no  choice  now :  he  must  defy  Baldassarre  as  a  mad,  imbecile 
old  man ;  and  the  chances  were  so  strongly  on  his  side  that 
there  was  hardly  room  for  fear.  No ;  except  the  fear  of  hav¬ 
ing  to  do  many  unpleasant  things  in  order  to  save  himself 
from  what  was  yet  more  unpleasant.  And  one  of  those  un¬ 
pleasant  things  must  be  done  immediately :  it  was  very 
difficult. 

“  Do  you  mean  to  stay  here  ?  ”  he  said. 

“No,”  said  Baldassarre,  bitterly,  “you  mean  to  turn  me 
out.” 

“Not  so,”  said  Tito ;  “ I  only  ask.” 

“  I  tell  you,  you  have  turned  me  out.  If  it  is  your  straw, 
you  turned  me  off  it  three  years  ago.” 

“  Then  you  mean  to  leave  this  place  ?  ”  said  Tito,  more 
anxious  about  this  certainty  than  the  ground  of  it. 

“  I  have  spoken,”  said  Baldassarre. 

Tito  turned  and  re-entered  the  house.  Monna  Lisa  was 
nodding ;  he  went  up  to  Tessa,  and  found  her  crying  by  the 
side  of  her  baby. 

“Tessa,”  he  said,. sitting  down  and  taking  her  head  between 
his  hands ;  “  leave  off  crying,  little  goose,  and  listen  to  me.” 

He  lifted  her  chin  upward,  that  she  might  look  at  him, 
while  he  spoke  very  distinctly  and  emphatically. 

“  You  must  never  speak  to  that  old  man  again.  He  is  a 
mad  old  man,  and  he  wants  to  kill  me.  Never  speak  to  him 
or  listen  to  him  again.” 


328  ROMOLA. 

Tessa’s  tears  had  ceased,  and  her  lips  were  pale  with 
fright. 

Is  he  gone  away  ?  ”  she  whispered. 

“  He  will  go  away.  Remember  what  I  have  said  to  you.” 

“  Yes  ;  I  will  never  speak  to  a  stranger  any  more,”  said 
Tessa,  with  a  sense  of  guilt. 

He  told  her,  to  comfort  her,  that  he  would  come  again  to¬ 
morrow  ;  and  then  went  down  to  Monna  Lisa  to  rebuke  her 
severely  for  letting  a  dangerous  man  come  about  the  house. 

Tito  felt  that  these  were  odious  tasks  ;  they  were  very  evil- 
tasted  morsels,  but  they  were  forced  upon  him.  He  heard 
Monna  Lisa  fasten  the  door  behind  him,  and  turned  away, 
without  looking  towards  the  open  door  of  the  hovel.  He  felt 
secure  that  Baldassarre  would  go,  and  he  could  not  wait  to  see 
him  go.  Even  his  young  frame  and  elastic  spirit  were  shat 
tered  by  the  agitations  that  had  been  crowded  into  this  single 
evening. 

Baldassarre  was  still  sitting  on  the  straw  when  the  shadow 
of  Tito  passed  by.  Before  him  lay  the  fragments  of  the 
broken  dagger ;  beside  him  lay  the  open  book,  over  which  he 
had  pored  in  vain.  They  looked  like  mocking  symbols  of  his 
utter  helplessness;  and  his  body  was  still  too  trembling  for 
him  to  rise  and  walk  away. 

But  the  next  morning  very  early,  when  Tessa  peeped  anx¬ 
iously  through  the  hole  in  her  shutter,  the  door  of  the  hovel 
was  open,  and  the  strange  old  man  was  gone.  * 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

"WHAT  FLOKENCE  WAS  THINKING  OF. 

For  several  days  Tito  saw  little  of  Romola.  He  told  her 
gently,  the  next  morning,  that  it  would  be  better  for  her  to 
remove  any  small  articles  of  her  own  from  the  library,  as  there 
would  be  agents  coming  to  pack  up  the  antiquities.  Then, 


WHAT  FLORENCE  WAS  THINKING  OF. 


329 


leaning  to  kiss  her  on  the  brow,  he  suggested  that  she  should 
keep  in  her  own  room  where  the  little  painted  tabernacle  was, 
and  where  she  was  then  sitting,  so  that  she  might  be  away 
from  the  noise  of  strange  footsteps.  Romola  assented  quietly, 
making  no  sign  of  emotion :  the  night  had  been  one  long  wak¬ 
ing  to  her,  and,  in  spite  of  her  healthy  frame,  sensation  had 
become  a  dull  continuous  pain,  as  if  she  had  been  stunned  and 
bruised.  Tito  divined  that  she  felt  ill,  but  he  dared  say  no 
more ;  he  only  dared,  perceiving  that  her  hand  and  brow  were 
stone  cold,  to  fetch  a  furred  mantle  and  throw  it  lightly  round 
her.  And  in  every  brief  interval  that  he  returned  to  her,  the 
scene  was  nearly  the  same  :  he  tried  to  propitiate  her  by  some 
unobtrusive  act  or  word  of  tenderness,  and  she  seemed  to  have 
lost  the  power  of  speaking  to  him,  or  of  looking  at  him. 
“  Patience  !  ”  he  said  to  himself.  “  She  will  recover  it,  and 
forgive  at  last.  The  tie  to  me  must  still  remain  the  strong¬ 
est.”  When  the  stricken  person  is  slow  to  recover  and  look 
as  if  nothing  had  happened,  the  striker  easily  glides  into  the 
position  of  the  aggrieved  Iiarty  ;  he  feels  no  bruise  himself, 
and  is  strongly  conscious  of  his  own  amiable  behavior  since 
he  inflicted  the  blow.  But  Tito  was  not  naturally  disposed  to 
feel  himself  aggrieved ;  the  constant  bent  of  his  mind  was 
towards  propitiation,  and  he  would  have  submitted  to  much 
for  the  sake  of  feeling  Romola’s  hand  resting  on  his  head 
again,  as  it  did  that  morning  when  he  first  shrank  from  look¬ 
ing  at  her. 

But  he  found  it  the  less  difficult  to  wait  patiently  for  the 
return  of  his  home  happiness,  because  his  life  out  of  doors  was 
more  and  more  interesting  to  him.  A  course  of  action  which 
is  in  strictness  a  slowly  prepared  outgrowth  of  the  entire  char¬ 
acter,  is  yet  almost  always  traceable  to  a  single  impression  as 
its  point  of  apparent  origin ;  and  since  that  moment  in  the 
Piazza  del  Duomo,  when  Tito,  mounted  on  the  bales,  had 
tasted  a  keen  pleasure  in  the  consciousness  of  his  ability  to 
tickle  the  ears  of  men  with  any  phrases  that  pleased  them, 
his  imagination  had  glanced  continually  towards  a  sort  of 
])olitical  activity  which  the  troubled  public  life  of  Florence 
was  likely  enough  to  find  occasion  for.  ^  But  the  fresh  dread 


S30 


ROMOLA. 


of  Baldassarre,  waked  in  the  same  moment,  had  lain  like  an 
immovable  rocky  obstruction  across  that  path,  and  had  urged 
him  into  the  sale  of  the  library,  as  a  preparation  for  the  pos¬ 
sible  necessity  of  leaving  Florence,  at  the  very  time  when  he 
was  beginning  to  feel  that  it  had  a  new  attraction  for  him. 
That  dread  was  nearly  removed  now :  he  must  wear  his  armor 
still,  he  must  prepare  himself  for  possible  demands  on  his 
coolness  and  ingenuity,  but  he  did  not  feel  obliged  to  take  the 
inconvenient  step  of  leaving  Florence  and  seeking  new  for¬ 
tunes.  His  father  had  refused  the  offered  atonement  —  had 
forced  him  into  defiance  ;  and  an  old  man  in  a  strange  place, 
with  his  memory  gone,  was  weak  enough  to  be  defied. 

Tito’s  implicit  desires  were  working  themselves  out  now  in 
very  explicit  thoughts.  As  the  freshness  of  young  passion 
faded,  life  was  taking  more  and  more  decidedly  for  him  tlie 
aspect  of  a  game  in  which  there  was  an  agreeable  mingling 
of  skill  and  chance. 

And  the  game  that  might  be  played  in  Florence  promised  to 
be  rapid  and  exciting;  it  was  a  game  of  revolutionary  and 
party  struggle,  sure  to  include  plenty  of  that  unavowed  action 
in  which  brilliant  ingenuity,  able  to  get  rid  of  all  inconvenient 
beliefs  except  that  “  ginger  is  hot  in  the  mouth,”  is  apt  to  see 
the  path  of  superior  wisdom. 

No  sooner  were  the  French  guests  gone  than  Florence  was 
as  agitated  as  a  colony  of  ants  when  an  alarming  shadow  has 
been  removed,  and  the  camp  has  to  be  repaired.  “How  are 
we  to  raise  the  money  for  the  French  king  ?  How  are  we  to 
manage  the  war  with  those  obstinate  Pisan  rebels  ?  Above 
all,  how  are  we  to  mend  our  plan  of  government,  so  as  to  hit 
on  the  best  way  of  getting  our  magistrates  chosen  and  our  laws 
voted  ?  ”  Till  those  questions  were  well  answered  trade  was 
in  danger  of  standing  still,  an^l  that  large  body  of  the  working 
men  who  were  not  counted  as  citizens  and  had  not  so  much  as 
a  vote  to  serve  as  an  anodyne  to  their  stomachs  were  likely  to 
get  impatient.  Something  must  be  done. 

And  first  the  great  bell  was  sounded,  to  call  the  citizens  to 
a  parliament  in  the  Piazza  de’  Signori ;  and  when  the  crowd 
was  wedged  close,  and  hemmed  in  by  armed  men  at  all  the 


WHAT  FLORENCE  WAS  THINKINO  OP. 


333 


outlets,  the  Signoria  (or  Gonfaloniere  and  eight  Priors  for  the 
time  being)  came  out  and  stood  by  the  stone  lion  on  the  plat¬ 
form  in  front  of  the  Old  Palace,  and  proposed  that  twenty 
chief  men  of  the  city  should  have  dictatorial  authority  given 
them,  by  force  of  which  they  should  for  one  year  choose  all 
magistrates,  and  set  the  frame  of  government  in  order.  And 
the  people  shouted  their  assent,  and  felt  themselves  the  elec¬ 
tors  of  the  Twenty.  This  kind  of  parliament  ”  was  a  very 
old  Florentine  fashion,  by  which  the  will  of  the  few  was  made 
to  seem  the  choice  of  the  many. 

The  shouting  in  the  piazza  was  soon  at  an  end,  but  not  so 
the  debating  inside  the  palace  :  was  Florence  to  have  a  Great 
Council  after  the  Venetian  mode,  wl>ere  all  the  officers  of  gov¬ 
ernment  might  be  elected,  and  all  laws  voted  by  a  wide  num¬ 
ber  of  citizens  of  a  certain  age  and  of  ascertained  qualifications, 
without  question  of  rank  or  party  ?  oi’,  was  it  to  be  governed 
on  a  narrower  and  less  popular  scheme,  in  which  the  heredi¬ 
tary  influence  of  good  families  would  be  less  adulterated  with 
the  votes  of  shopkeepers  ?  Doctors  of  law  disputed  day  after 
day,  and  far  on  into  the  night.  Messer  Pagolantonio  Soderini 
alleged  excellent  reasons  on  the  side  of  the  popular  scheme ; 
Messer  Guidantonio  Vespucci  alleged  reasons  equally  excellent 
on  the  side  of  a  more  aristocratic  form.  It  was  a  question  of 
boiled  or  roast,  which  had  been  prejudged  by  the  palates  of 
the  disputants,  and  the  excellent  arguing  might  have  been  pro¬ 
tracted  a  long  while  wdthout  any  other  result  than  that  of 
deferring  the  cooking.  The  majority  of  the  men  inside  the 
palace,  having  power  already  in  their  hands,  agreed  with  Ves¬ 
pucci,  and  thouglit  change  should  be  moderate ;  the  majority 
outside  the  palace,  conscioiis  of  little  power  and  many  griev¬ 
ances,  were  less  afraid  of  change. 

And  there  was  a  force  outside  the  palace  which  was  gradu¬ 
ally  tending  to  give  the  vague  desires  of  that  majority  the 
character  of  a  determinate  will.  That  force  was  the  preaching 
of  Savonarola.  Impelled  partly  by  the  spiritual  necessity 
that  was  laid  upon  him  to  guide  the  people,  and  partly  by  the 
prompting  of  public  men  who  could  get  no  measures  carried 
without  his  aid,  he  was  rapidly  passing  in  his  daily  sermons 


33^ 


KOMOLA. 


from  the  general  to  the  special  —  from  'telling  his  hearers  that 
they  must  postpone  their  private  passions  and  interests  to  the 
public  good,  to  telling  them  precisely  what  sort  of  government 
they  must  have  in  order  to  promote  that  good  —  from  “  Choose 
whatever  is  best  for  all,’’  to  “  Choose  the  Great  Council,”  and 
the  Great  Council  is  the  will  of  God.” 

To  Savonarola  these  were  as  good  as  identical  propositions. 
The  Great  Council  was  the  only  practicable  plan  for  giving  an 
expression  to  the  public  will  large  enough  to  counteract  the 
vitiating  influence  of  party  interests :  it  was  a  plan  that  would 
make  honest  impartial  public  action  at  least  possible.  And 
the  purer  the  government  of  Florence  would  become  —  the 
more  secure  from  the  designs  of  men  who  saw  their  own  ad¬ 
vantage  in  the  moral  debasement  of  their  fellows  —  the  nearer 
would  the  Florentine  people  approach  the  character  of  a  pure 
community,  worthy  to  lead  the  way  in  the  renovation  of  the 
Church  and  the  world.  And  Fra  Girolamo’s  mind  never 
stopped  short  of  that  sublimest  end :  the  objects  towards 
which  he  felt  himself  working  had  always  the  same  moral 
magnificence.  He  had  no  private  malice  —  he  sought  no  petty 
gratification.  Even  in  the  last  terrible  days,  when  ignominy, 
torture,  and  the  fear  of  torture,  had  laid  bare  every  hidden 
weakness  of  his  soul,  he  could  say  to  his  importunate  judges  : 

Do  not  wonder  if  it  seems  to  you  that  I  have  told  but  few 
things  ;  for  my  purposes  were  few  and  great.”  ^ 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

ARIADNE  DISCROWNS  HERSELF. 

It  was  more  than  three  weeks  before  the  contents  of  the 
library  were  all  packed  and  carried  away.  And  Romola,  in¬ 
stead  of  shutting  her  eyes  and  ears,  had  watched  the  process. 

^  “Se  vi  pare  che  io  abbia  detto  pocbe  cose,  non  ve  ne  maravigliate,  perchi 
le  mie  cose  erano  poche  e  grandi.” 


ARIADNE  DISCROWNS  HERSELF. 


333 


The  exhaustion  consequent  on  violent  emotion  is  apt  to  bring 
a  dreamy  disbelief  in  the  reality  of  its  cause ;  and  in  the  even¬ 
ing,  when  the  workmen  were  gone,  Eomola  took  her  hand- 
lamp  and  walked  slowly  round  among  the  confusion  of  straw 
and  wooden  cases,  pausing  at  every  vacant  pedestal,  every 
well-known  object  laid  prostrate,  with  a  sort  of  bitter  desire  to 
assure  herself  that  there  was  a  sufficient  reason  why  her  love 
was  gone  and  the  world  was  barren  for  her.  And  still,  as  the 
evenings  came,  she  went  and  went  again  ;  no  longer  to  assure 
herself,  but  because  this  vivifying  of  pain  and  despair  about 
her  father’s  memory  was  the  strongest  life  left  to  her  affec¬ 
tions.  On  the  23d  of  December,  she  knew  that  the  last  pack¬ 
ages  were  going.  She  ran  to  the  loggia  at  the  top  of  the  house 
that  she  might  not  lose  the  last  pang  of  seeing  the  slow  wheels 
move  across  the  bridge. 

It  was  a  cloudy  day,  and  nearing  dusk.  Arno  ran  dark  and 
shivering ;  the  hills  were  mournful ;  and  Florence  with  its 
girdling  stone  towers  had  that  silent,  tomb-like  look,  which 
unbroken  shadow  gives  to  a  city  seen  from  above.  Santa 
Croce,  where  her  father  lay,  was  dark  amidst  that  darkness, 
and  slowly  crawling  over  the  bridge,  and  slowly  vanishing  up 
the  narrow  street,  was  the  white  load,  like  a  cruel,  deliberate 
Fate  carrying  away  her  father’s  lifelong  hope  to  bury  it  in  an 
unmarked  grave.  Eomola  felt  less  that  she  was  seeing  this 
herself  than  that  her  father  was  conscious  of  it  as  he  lay  help¬ 
less  under  the  imprisoning  stones,  where  her  hand  could  not 
reach  his  to  tell  him  that  he  was  not  alone. 

She  stood  still  even  after  the  load  had  disappeared,  heedless 
of  the  cold,  and  soothed  by  the  gloom  which  seemed  to  cover 
her  like  a  mourning  garment  and  shut  out  the  discord  of  joy. 
When  suddenly  the  great  bell  in  the  palace-tower  rang  out  a 
mighty  peal :  not  the  hammer-sound  of  alarm,  but  an  agitated 
peal  of  triumph  ;  and  one  after  another  every  other  bell  in 
every  other  tower  seemed  to  catch  the  vibration  and  join  the 
chorus.  And,  as  the  chorus  swelled  and  swelled  till  the  air 
seemed  made  of  sound — little  flames,  vibrating  too,  as  if  the 
sound  had  caught  fire,  burst  out  between  the  turrets  of  the 
palace  and  on  the  girdling  towers. 


334 


ROMOLA. 


That  sudden  clang,  that  leaping  light,  fell  on  Romola  like 
sharp  wounds.  They  were  the  triumph  of  demons  at  the  suc¬ 
cess  of  her  husband’s  treachery,  and  the  desolation  of  her  life. 
Little  more  than  three  weeks  ago  she  had  been  intoxicated 
with  the  sound  of  those  very  bells  ;  and  in  the  gladness  of 
Florence,  she  had  heard  a  prophecy  of  her  own  gladness.  But 
now  the  general  joy  seemed  cruel  to  her :  she  stood  aloof  from 
that  common  life — that  Florence  which  was  flinging  out  its 
loud  exultation  to  stun  the  ears  of  sorrow  and  loneliness.  She 
could  never  join  hands  with  gladness  again,  but  only  with 
those  whom  it  was  in  the  hard  nature  of  gladness  to  forget. 
And  in  her  bitterness  she  felt  that  all  rejoicing  was  mockery. 
Men  shouted  paeans  with  their  souls  full  of  heaviness,  and 
then  looked  in  their  neighbors’  faces  to  see  if  there  was  really 
such  a  thing  as  joy.  Romola  had  lost  her  belief  in  the  happi¬ 
ness  she  had  once  thirsted  for :  it  was  a  hateful,  smiling,  soft- 
handed  thing,  with  a  narrow,  selfish  heart. 

She  ran  down  from  the  loggia,  with  her  hands  pressed  against 
her  ears,  and  was  hurrying  across  the  ante-chamber,  when  she 
was  startled  by  unexpectedly  meeting  her  husband,  who  was 
coming  to  seek  her. 

His  step  was  elastic,  and  there  was  a  radiance  of  satisfaction 
about  him  not  quite  usual. 

‘‘What !  the  noise  was  a  little  too  much  for  you  ?  ”  he  said; 
for  Romola,  as  she  started  at  the  sight  of  him,  had  pressed 
her  hands  all  the  closer  against  her  ears.  He  took  her  gently 
by  the  wrist,  and  drew  her  arm  within  his,  leading  her  into 
the  saloon  surrounded  with  the  dancing  nymphs  and  fauns, 
and  then  went  on  speaking :  “  Florence  is  gone  quite  mad  at 
getting  its  Great  Council,  which  is  to  put  an  end  to  all  the 
evils  under  the  sun;  especially  to  the  vice  of  merriment.  You 
may  well  look  stunned,  my  Romola,  and  you  are  cold.  You 
must  not  stay  so  late  under  that  windy  loggia  without  wrap¬ 
pings.  I  was  coming  to  tell  you  that  I  am  suddenly  called 
to  Rome  about  some  learned  business  for  Bernardo  Rucellai. 
I  am  going  away  immediately,  for  I  am  to  join  my  party  at 
San  Gaggio  to-night,  that  we  may  start  early  in  the  morning. 
I  need  give  you  nq_  trouble  ;  I  have  had  my  packages 


ARIADNE  DISCROWNS  HERSEI.F.  335 

made  already.  It  will  not  be  very  long  before  I  am  back 
again.” 

He  knew  he  had  nothing  to  expect  from  her  but  quiet  endur¬ 
ance  .of  what  he  said  and  did.  He  could  not  even  venture  to 
kiss  her  brow  this  evening,  but  just  pressed  her  hand  to  his 
lips,  and  left  her.  Tito  felt  that  Eomola  was  a  more  unfor¬ 
giving  woman  than  he  had  imagined ;  her  love  was  not  that 
sweet  clinging  instinct,  stronger  than  all  judgments,  which,  he 
began  to  see  now,  made  the  great  charm  of  a  wife.  Still,  this 
petrified  coldness  was  better  than  a  passionate,  futile  opposi¬ 
tion.  Her  pride  and  capability  of  seeing  where  resistance 
was  useless  had  their  convenience. 

But  when  the  door  had  closed  on  Tito,  Romola  lost  the  look 
of  cold  immobility  which  came  over  her  like  an  inevitable  frost 
whenever  he  approached  her.  Inwardly  she  was  very  far  from 
being  in  a  state  of  quiet  endurance,  and  the  days  that  had 
passed  since  the  scene  which  had  divided  her  from  Tito  had 
been  days  of  active  planning  and  preparation  for  the  fulfilment 
of  a  purpose. 

The  first  thing  she  did  now  was  to  call  old  Maso  to  her. 

“  Maso,”  she  said,  in  a  decided  tone,  we  take  our  journey 
to-morrow  morning.  We  shall  be  able  now  to  overtake  that 
first  convoy  of  cloth,  while  they  are  waiting  at  San  Piero. 
See  about  the  two  mules  to-night,  and  be  ready  to  set  off  with 
them  at  break  of  day,  and  wait  for  me  at  Trespiano.” 

She  meant  to  take  Maso  with  her  as  far  as  Bologna,  and 
then  send  him  back  with  letters  to  her  godfather  and  Tito, 
telling  them  that  she  was  gone  and  never  meant  to  return. 
She  had  planned  her  departure  so  that  its  secrecy  might  be 
perfect,  and  her  broken  love  and  life  be  hidden  away  unscanned 
by  vulgar  eyes.  Bernardo  del  Nero  had  been  absent  at  his 
villa,  willing  to  escape  from  political  suspicions  to  his  favorite 
occupation  of  attending  to  his  land,  and  she  had  paid  him  the 
debt  without  a  personal  interview.  He  did  not  even  know 
that  the  library  was  sold,  and  was  left  to  conjecture  that  some 
sudden  piece  of  good  fortune  had  enabled  Tito  to  raise  this 
sum  of  money.  Maso  had  been  taken  into  her  confidence  only 
30  far  that  he  knew  her  intended  journey  was  a  secret ;  and 


33G 


EOMOLA. 


to  do  just  wliat  she  told  him  was  the  thing  he  cared  most  foi 
in  his  withered  wintry  age. 

Eomola  did  not  mean  to  go  to  bed  that  night.  When  she 
had  fastened  the  door  she  took  her  taper  to  the  carved  and 
painted  chest  which  contained  her  wedding-clothes.  The  white 
silk  and  gold  lay  there,  the  long  white  veil  and  the  circlet  of 
pearls.  A  great  sob  rose  as  she  looked  at  them :  they  seemed 
the  shroud  of  her  dead  happiness.  In  a  tiny  gold  loop  of  the 
circlet  a  sugar-plum  had  lodged  —  a  pink  hailstone  from  the 
shower  of  sweets :  Tito  had  detected  it  first,  and  had  said  that 
it  should  always  remain  there.  At  certain  moments  —  and 
this  was  one  of  them  —  Eomola  was  carried,  by  a  sudden 
wave  of  memory,  back  again  into  the  time  of  perfect  trust, 
and  felt  again  the  presence  of  the  husband  whose  love  made 
the  world  as  fresh  and  wonderful  to  her  as  to  a  little  child 
that  sits  in  stillness  among  the  sunny  flowers:  heard  the  gentle 
tones  and  saw  the  soft  eyes  without  any  lie  in  them,  and 
breathed  again  that  large  freedom  of  the  soul  which  comes 
from  the  faith  that  the  being  who  is  nearest  to  us  is  greater 
than  ourselves.  And  in  those  brief  moments  the  tears  always 
rose  :  the  woman’s  lovingness  felt  something  akin  to  what  the 
bereaved  mother  feels  when  the  tiny  fingers  seem  to  lie  warm 
on  her  bosom,  and  yet  are  marble  to  her  lips  as  she  bends  over 
the  silent  bed. 

But  there  was  something  else  lying  in  the  chest  besides  the 
wedding-clothes :  it  was  something  dark  and  coarse,  rolled  up 
in  a  close  bundle.  She  turned  away  her  eyes  from  the  white 
and  gold  to  the  dark  bundle,  and  as  her  hands  touched  the 
serge,  her  tears  began  to  be  checked.  That  coarse  roughness 
recalled  her  fully  to  the  present,  from  which  love  and  delight 
were  gone.  She  unfastened  the  thick  white  cord  and  spread 
the  bundle  out  on  the  table.  It  was  the  gray  serge  dress  of 
a  sister  belonging  to  the  third  order  of  St.  Francis,  living  in 
the  world  but  especially  devoted  to  deeds  of  piety  —  a  person¬ 
age  whom  the  Florentines  were  accustomed  to  call  a  Pinzochera. 
Eomola  was  going  to  put  on  this  dress  as  a  disguise,  and  she 
determined  to  put  it  on  at  once,  so  that,  if  she  needed  sleep 
before  the  morning,  she  might  wake  up  in  perfect  readiness 


ARIADNE  DISCROWNS  HERSELF. 


OtJ  i 

to  be  gone.  She  put  off  her  black  garment,  and  as  she  thrust 
her  soft  white  arms  into  the  harsh  sleeves  of  the  serge  mantle 
and  felt  the  hard  girdle  of  rope  hurt  her  fingers  as  she  tied  it, 
she  courted  those  rude  sensations  :  they  were  in  keeping  with 
her  new  scorn  of  that  thing  called  pleasure  which  made  men 
base  —  that  dexterous  contrivance  for  selfish  ease,  that  shrink¬ 
ing  from  endurance  and  strain,  when  others  were  bowing 
beneath  burdens  too  heavy  for  them,  which  now  made  one 
image  with  her  husband. 

Then  she  gathered  her  long  hair  together,  drew  it  away 
tight  from  her  face,  bound  it  in  a  great  hard  knot  at  the  back 
of  her  head,  and  taking  a  square  piece  of  black  silk,  tied  it  in 
the  fashion  of  a  kerchief  close  across  her  head  and  under  her 
chin ;  and  over  that  she  drew  the  cowl.  She  lifted  the  candle 
to  the  mirror.  Surely  her  disguise  would  be  complete  to  any 
one  who  had  not  lived  very  near  to  her.  To  herself  she  looked 
strangely  like  her  brother  Dino:  the  full  oval  of  the  cheek 
had  only  to  be  wasted ;  the  eyes,  already  sad,  had  only  to  be¬ 
come  a  little  sunken.  Was  she  getting  more  like  him  in  any¬ 
thing  else  ?  Only  in  this,  that  she  understood  now  how  men 
could  be  prompted  to  rush  away  forever  from  earthly  delights, 
how  they  could  be  prompted  to  dwell  on  images  of  sorrow  • 
rather  than  of  beauty  and  joy. 

But  she  did  not  linger  at  the  mirror :  she  set  about  collect¬ 
ing  and  packing  all  the  relics  of  her  father  and  mother  that 
were  too  large  to  be  carried  in  her  small  travelling-wallet. 
They  were  all  to  be  put  in  the  chest  along  with  her  wedding- 
clothes,  and  the  chest  was  to  be  committed  to  her  godfather 
when  she  was  safely  gone.  First  she  laid  in  the  portraits; 
then  one  by  one  every  little  thing  that  had  a  sacred  memory 
clinging  to  it  was  put  into  her  wallet  or  into  the  chest. 

She  paused.  There  was  still  something  else  to  be  stript 
away  from  her,  belonging  to  that  past  on  which  she  was  going 
to  turn  her  back  forever.  She  put  her  thumb  and  her  fore¬ 
finger  to  her  betrothal  ring;  but  they  rested  there,  without 
drawing  it  off.  Romola’s  mind  had  been  rushing  with  an  im¬ 
petuous  current  towards  this  act,  for  which  she  was  prepar 
tag :  the  act  of  quitting  a  husband  who  had  disappointed  all 


VOL.  T. 


38b 


ROMOLA. 


her  trust,  of  breaking  an  outward  tie  that  no  longer 

represented  the  i.-iward  bond  of  love.  But  that  force  of  out¬ 
ward  symbols  by  which  our  active  life  is  knit  together  so  as 
to  make  an  inexorable  external  identity  for  us,  not  to  be 
shaken  by  our  wavering  consciousness,  gave  a  strange  effect 
to  this  simple  movement  towards  taking  off  her  ring  —  a  move¬ 
ment  which  was  but  a  small  sequence  of  her  energetic  resolu¬ 
tion.  It  brought  a  vague  but  arresting  sense  that  she  was 
somehow  violently  rending  her  life  in  two :  a  presentiment 
that  the  strong  impulse  which  had  seemed  to  exclude  doubt 
and  make  her  path  clear  might  after  all  be  blindness,  and  that 
there  was  something  in  human  bonds  which  must  prevent 
them  from  being  broken  with  the  breaking  of  illusions. 

If  that  beloved  Tito  who  had  placed  the  betrothal  ring  on, 
her  finger  was  not  in  any  valid  sense  the  same  Tito  whom  she 
had  ceased  1  o  love,  why  should  she  return  to  him  the  sign  of 
their  union,  and  not  rather  retain  it  as  a  memorial  ?  And  this 
act,  which  came  as  a,  palpable  demonstration  of  her  own  and 
his  identity,  had  a  ^ower  unexplained  to  herself,  of  shaking 
Bomola.  It  is  the  way  with  half  the  truth  amidst  which  we  live, 
that  it  only  haunts  us  and  makes  dull  pulsations  that  are  never 
born  into  sound.  But  there  was  a  passionate  voice  speaking 
within  her  that  presently  nullified  all  such  muffled  murmurs, 
“It  cannot  be!  I  cannot  be  subject  to  him.  He  is  false. 
I  shrink  from  him.  I  despise  him !  ” 

She  snatched  the  ring  from  her  finger  and  laid  it  on  the 
table  against  the  pen  Avith  which  she  meant  to  write.  Again 
•she  felt  that  there  could  be  no  law  for  her  but  the  law  of  her 
affections.  That  tenderness  and  keen  fellow-feeling  for  the 
near  and  the  loved  which  are  the  main  outgrowth  of  the  affec¬ 
tions,  had  made  the  religion  of  her  life :  they  had  made  her 
patient  in  spite  of  natural  impetuosity;  they  would  have 
sufficed  to  make  her  heroic.  But  noAv  all  that  strength  was 
gone,  or,  rather,  it  was  converted  into  the  strength  of  repul¬ 
sion.  She  had  recoiled  from  Tito  in  proportion  to  the  energy 
of  that  young  belief  and  love  which  he  had  disappointed,  of 
that  lifelong  devotion  to  her  father  against  which  he  had 
ecmmitted  an  irredeemable  offence.  And  it  seemed  as  if  all 


ARIADNE  DISCROWNS  HERSELF.  339 

motive  had  slipped  away  from  her,  except  the  indignation  and 
scorn  that  made  her  tear  herself  asunder  from  him. 

She  was  not  acting  after  any  precedent,  or  obeying  any 
adopted  maxims.  The  grand  severity  of  the  stoical  philoso¬ 
phy  in  which  her  father  had  taken  care  to  instruct  her,  was 
familiar  enough  to  her  ears  and  lips,  and  its  lofty  spirit  had 
raised  certain  echoes  within  her;  but  sh«  had  never  used  it, 
never  needed  it  as  a  rule  of  life.  She  had  endured  and  for¬ 
borne  because  she  loved :  maxims  which  told  her  to  feel  less, 
and  not  to  cling  close  lest  the  onward  course  of  great  Nature 
should  jar  her,  had  been  as  powerless  on  her  tenderness  as 
they  had  been  on  her  father’s  yearning  for  just  fame.  She 
had  appropriated  no  theories :  she  had  simply  felt  strong  in 
the  strength  of  affection,  and  life  without  that  energy  came  to 
her  as  an  entirely  new  problem. 

She  was  going  to  solve  the  problem  in  a  way  that  seemed  to 
her  very  simple.  Her  mind  had  never  yet  bowed  to  any  obli¬ 
gation  apart  from  personal  love  and  reverence ;  she  had  no 
keen  sense  of  any  other  human  relations,  and  all  she  had  to 
obey  now  was  the  instinct  to  sever  herself  from  the  man  she 
loved  no  longer. 

Yet  the  unswerving  resolution  was  accompanied  with  con¬ 
tinually  varying  phases  of  anguish.  And  now  that  the  active 
preparation  for  her  departure  was  almost  finished,  she  lin¬ 
gered  :  she  deferred  writing  the  irrevocable  words  of  parting 
from  all  her  little  world.  The  emotions  of  the  past  weeks 
seemed  to  rush  in  again  with  cruel  hurry,  and  take  possession 
even  of  her  limbs.  She  was  going  to  write,  and  her  hand  fell. 
Hitter  tears  came  now  at  the  delusion  which  had  blighted  her 
young  years;  tears  very  different  from  the  sob  of  remembered 
happiness  with  which  she  had  looked  at  the  circlet  of  pearls 
and  the  pink  hailstone.  And  now  she  felt  a  tingling  shame  at 
the  words  of  ignominy  she  had  cast  at  Tito  —  “  Have  you 
robbed  some  one  else  who  is  not  dead  ?  ”  To  have  had  such 
words  wrung  from  her  —  to  have  uttered  them  to  her  husband 
seemed  a  degradation  of  her  whole  life.  Hard  speech  between 
those  who  have  loved  is  hideous  in  the  memory,  like  the  sight 
of  greatness  and  beauty  sunk  into  vice  and  rags. 


340 


PtOMOLA, 


That  heart-cutting  comparison  of  the  present  with  the  past 
urged  itself  upon  Eomola  till  it  even  transformed  itself  into 
wretched  sensations  :  she  seemed  benumbed  to  everything  but 
inward  throbbings,  and  began  to  feel  the  need  of  some  hard 
contact.  She  drew  her  hands  tight  along  the  harsh  knotted 
cord  that  hung  from  her  waist.  She  started  to  her  feet  and 
seized  the  rough  lid  of  the  chest :  there  was  nothing  else  to  go 
in  ?  No.  She  closed  the  lid,  pressing  her  hand  upon  the  rough 
carving,  and  locked  it. 

Then  she  remembered  that  she  had  still  to  complete  her 
equipment  as  a  Pinzochera.  The  large  leather  purse  or  scar- 
sella,  with  small  coin  in  it,  had  to  be  hung  on  the  cord  at 
her  waist  (her  florins  and  small  jewels,  presents  from  her 
godfather  and  cousin  Brigida,  were  safely  fastened  within 
her  serge  mantle)  —  and  on  the  other  side  must  hang  the 
rosary. 

It  did  not  occur  to  Eomola,  as  she  hung  that  rosary  by  her 
side,  that  something  else  besides  the  mere  garb  would  perhaps 
be  necessary  to  enable  her  to  pass  as  a  Pinzochera,  and  that 
her  whole  air  and  expression  were  as  little  as  possible  like 
those  of  a  sister  whose  eyelids  were  used  to  be  bent,  and 
whose  lips  were  used  to  move  in  silent  iteration.  Her  inexpe¬ 
rience  prevented  her  from  picturing  distant  details,  and  it 
helped  her  proud  courage  in  shutting  out  any  foreboding  of 
danger  and  insult.  She  did  not  know  L''at  any  Florentine 
woman  had  ever  done  exactly  what  she  was  going  to  do :  un- 
happy  wives  often  took  refuge  with  their  friends,  or  in  the 
cloister,  she  knew,  but  both  those  courses  were  impossible  to 
her;  she  had  invented  a  lot  for  herself  —  to  go  to  the  most 
learned  woman  in  the  world,  Cassandra  Fedele,  at  Venice,  and 
ask  her  how  an  instructed  woman  could  support  herself  in  a 
lonely  life  there. 

She  was  not  daunted  by  the  practical  difiiculties  in  the  way 
or  the  dark  uncertainty  at  the  end.  Her  life  could  never  be 
liappy  any  more,  but  it  must  not,  could  not,  be  ignoble.  And 
by  a  pathetic  mixture  of  childish  romance  with  her  woman’s 
trials,  the  philosophy  which  had  nothing  to  do  with  this  great 
decisive  deed  of  hers  had  its  place  in  her  imagination  of  the 


ARIADNE  DISCROWNS  HERSELF. 


841 


future :  so  far  as  she  conceived  her  solitary  loveless  life  at  all, 
she  saw  it  animated  by  a  proud  stoical  heroism,  and  by  an  in¬ 
distinct  but  strong  purpose  of  labor,  that  she  might  be  wise 
enough  to  write  something  which  would  rescue  her  father’s 
name  from  oblivion.  After  all,  she  was  only  a  young  girl  — 
this  poor  Romola,  who  had  found  herself  at  the  end  of  her 
joys.  ■ 

There  were  other  things  yet  to  be  done.  There  was  a  small 
key  in  a  casket  on  the  table  —  but  now  Homola  perceived  that 
her  taper  was  dying  out,  and  she  had  forgotten  to  provide  her¬ 
self  with  any  other  light.  In  a  few  moments  the  room  was  in 
total  darkness.  Feeling  her  way  to  the  nearest  chair,  she  sat 
down  to  wait  for  the  morning. 

Her  purpose  in  seeking  the  key  had  called  up  certain  memo¬ 
ries  which  had  come  back  upon  her  during  the  past  week  with 
the  new  vividness  that  remembered  words  always  have  for  us 
when  we  have  learned  to  give  them  a  new  meaning.  Since  the 
shock  of  the  revelation  which  had  seemed  to  divide  her  forever 
from  Tito,  that  last  interview  with  Dino  had  never  been  for 
many  hours  together  out  of  her  mind.  And  it  solicited  her 
all  the  more,  because  while  its  remembered  images  pressed 
upon  her  almost  with  the  imperious  force  of  sensations,  they 
raised  struggling  thoughts  which  resisted  their  influence.  She 
could  not  prevent  herself  from  hearing  inwardly  the  dying 
prophetic  voice  saying  again  and  again,  —  The  man  whose 
face  was  a  blank  loosed  thy  hand  and  departed ;  and  as  he 
went,  I  could  see  his  face,  and  it  was  the  face  of  the  greal 
Tempter  .  .  .  And  thou,  Eomola,  didst  wring  thy  hands  and 
seek  for  water,  and  there  was  none  .  .  .  and  the  plain  was 
bare  and  stony  again,  and  thou  wast  alone  in  the  midst  of  it. 
And  then  it  seemed  that  the  night  fell,  and  I  saw  no  mors."’ 
She  could  not  prevent  herself  from  dwelling  with  a  sort  of 
agonized  fascination  on  the  wasted  face  ;  on  the  straining  gaze 
at  the  crucifix;  on  the  awe  which  had  compelled  her  to  kneel ; 
on  the  last  broken  words  and  then  the  unbroken  silence  —  on 
all  the  details  of  the  death-scene,  which  had  seemed  like  a 
sudden  opening  into  a  world  apart  from  that  of  her  life-loni, 
knowledge. 


842 


ROMOLA. 


But  her  mind  was  roused  to  resistance  of  impressions  that, 
from  being  obvious  phantoms,  seemed  to  be  getting  solid  in 
the  daylight.  As  a  strong  body  struggles  against  fumes  with 
the  more  violence  when  they  begin  to  be  stifling,  a  strong  soul 
struggles  against  phantasies  with  all  the  more  alarmed  energy 
when  they  threaten  to  govern  in  the  place  of  thought. 

What  had  the  words  of  that  vision  to  do  with  her  real  sor¬ 
rows  ?  That  fitting  of  certain  -words  was  a  mere  chance ;  the 
rest  was  all  vague  —  nay,  those  words  themselves  were  vague ; 
they  were  determined  by  nothing  but  her  brother’s  memories 
and  beliefs.  He  believed  there  was  something  fatal  in  pagan 
learning ;  he  believed  that  celibacy  was  more  holy  than  mar¬ 
riage  ;  he  remembered  their  home,  and  all  the  objects  in  the 
library ;  and  of  these  threads  the  vision  was  woven.  What 
reasonable  warrant  could  she  have  had  for  believing  in  such 
a  vision  and  acting  on  it  ?  None.  True  as  the  voice  of  fore¬ 
boding  had  proved,  Romola  saw  with  unshaken  conviction  that 
to  have  renounced  Tito  in  obedience  to  a  warning  like  that, 
would  have  been  meagre-hearted  folly.  Her  trust  had  been 
delusive,  but  she  would  have  chosen  over  again  to  have  acted 
on  it  rather  than  be  a  creature  led  by  phantoms  and  disjointed 
whispers  in  a  world  where  there  was  the  large  music  of  reason¬ 
able  speech,  and  the  warm  grasp  of  living  hands. 

But  the  persistent  presence  of  these  memories,  linking  them¬ 
selves  in  her  imagination  with  her  actual  lot,  gave  her  a 
glimpse  of  understanding  into  the  lives  which  had  before  lain 
utterly  aloof  from  her  sympathy  —  the  lives  of  the  men  and 
women  who  were  led  by  such  inward  images  and  voices. 

“  If  they  were  only  a  little  stronger  in  me,”  she  said  to  her¬ 
self,  “  I  should  lose  the  sense  of  what  that  vision  really  was, 
and  take  it  for  a  prophetic  light.  I  might  in  time  get  to  be  a 
seer  of  visions  myself,  like  the  Suora  Maddalena,  and  Camilla 
Bucellai,  and  the  rest.” 

Romola  shuddered  at  the  possibility.  All  the  instruction, 
all  the  main  influences  of  her  life  had  gone  to  fortify  her  scorn 
of  that  sickly  superstition  which  led  men  and  women,  with 
eyes  too  weak  for  the  daylight,  to  sit  in  dark  swamps  and  try  to 
read  human  destiny  by  the  chance  flame  of  wandering  vapors. 


ARIADNE  DISCROWNS  HERSELF. 


343 


And  yet  she  was  conscious  of  something  deeper  than  that 
coincidence  of  words  which  made  the  parting  contact  with  her 
dying  brother  live  anew  in  her  mind,  and  gave  a  new  sister¬ 
hood  to  the  wasted  face.  If  there  were  much  more  of  such 
experience  as  his  in  the  world,  she  would  like  to  understand  it 
—  would  even  like  to  learn  the  thoughts  of  men  who  sank  in 
ecstasy  before  the  pictured  agonies  of  martyrdom.  There 
seemed  to  be  something  more  than  madness  in  that  supreme 
fellowship  with  suffering.  The  springs  were  all  dried  up 
around  her ;  she  wondered  what  other  waters  there  were  at 
which  men  drank  and  found  strength  in  the  desert.  And 
those  moments  in  the  Duomo  when  she  had  sobbed  with  a 
mysterious  mingling  of  rapture  and  pain,  while  Fra  Girolamo 
offered  himself  a  willing  sacrifice  for  the  people,  came  back  to 
her  as  if  they  had  been  a  transient  taste  of  some  such  far-off 
fountain.  But  again  she  shrank  from  impressions  that  were 
alluring  her  within  the  sphere  of  visions  and  narrow  fears 
which  compelled  men  to  outrage  natural  affections  as  Dino 
had  done. 

This  was  the  tangled  web  that  Bomola  had  in  her  mind  as 
she  sat  weary  in  the  darkness.  No  radiant  angel  came  across 
the  gloom  with  a  clear  message  for  her.  In  those  times,  as 
now,  there  were  human  beings  who  never  saw  angels  or  heard 
perfectly  clear  messages.  Such  truth  as  came  to  them  was 
brought  confusedly  in  the  voices  and  deeds  of  men  not  at  all 
like  the  seraphs  of  unfailing  wing  and  piercing  vision  —  men 
who  believed  falsities  as  well  as  truths,  and  did  the  wrong  as 
well  as  the  right.  The  helping  hands  stretched  out  to  them 
were  the  hands  of  men  who  stumbled  and  often  saw  dimly,  so 
^hat  these  beings  unvisited  by  angels  had  no  other  choice  than 
to  grasp  that  stumbling  guidance  along  the  path  of  reliance 
and  action  which  is  the  path  of  life,  or  else  to  pause  in  loneli¬ 
ness  and  disbelief,  which  is  no  path,  but  the  arrest  of  inaction 
and  death. 

And  so  Bomola,  seeing  no  rny  across  the  darkness,  and 
heavy  with  conflict  that  changed  nothing,  sank  at  last  to 
sleep. 


344 


ROMO  LA. 


CHAPTER  XXXVn. 

THE  TABERNACLE  UNLOCKED. 

Romola  was  waked  by  a  tap  at  the  door.  The  cold  light 
of  early  morning  was  in  the  room,  and  Maso  was  come  for  the 
travelling- wallet.  The  old  man  could  not  help  starting  when 
she  opened  the  door,  and  showed  him,  instead  of  the  graceful 
outline  he  had  been  used  to,  crowned  with  the  brightness  of 
her  hair,  the  thick  folds  of  the  gray  mantle  and  the  pale  face 
shadowed  by  the  dark  cowl, 

“It  is  well,  Maso,”  said  Romola,  trying  to  speak  in  the 
calmest  voice,  and  make  the  old  man  easy.  “  Here  is  the 
wallet  quite  ready.  You  will  go  on  quietly,  and  I  shall  not 
be  far  behind  you.  When  you  get  out  of  the  gates  you  may 
go  more  slowly,  for  I  shall  perhaps  join  you  before  you  get  to 
Trespiano.” 

She  closed  the  door  behind  him,  and  then  put  her  hand  on 
the  key  which  she  had  taken  from  the  casket  the  last  thing  in 
the  night.  It  was  the  original  key  of  the  little  painted  taber¬ 
nacle  :  Tito  had  forgotten  to  drown  it  in  the  Arno,  and  it  had 
lodged,  as  such  small  things  will,  in  the  corner  of  the  embroid¬ 
ered  scarsella  which  he  wore  with  the  purple  tunic.  One  day, 
long  after  their  marriage,  Romola  had  found  it  there,  and  had 
put  it  by,  without  using  it,  but  with  a  sense  of  satisfaction 
that  the  key  was  within  reach.  The  cabinet  on  which  the 
tabernacle  stood  had  been  moved  to  the  side  of  the  room,  close 
to  one  of  the  windows,  where  the  pale  morning  light  fell  upon 
it  so  as  to  make  the  painted  forms  discernible  enough  to 
Romola,  who  knew  them  well,  —  the  triumphant  Bacchus, 
with  his  clusters  and  his  vine-clad  spear,  clasping  the  crowned 
Ariadne ;  the  Loves  showering  roses,  the  wreathed  vessel,  the 
cunning-eyed  dolphins,  and  the  rippled  sea:  all  encircled  by  a 
flowery  border,  like  a  bower  of  paradise.  Romola  looked  at 
the  familiar  images  with  new  bitterness  and  repulsion  :  they 


THE  TABERNACLE  UNLOCKED. 


345 


seemed  a  more  pitiable  mockery  than  ever  on  this  chill  morn¬ 
ing,  when  she  had  waked  up  to  wander  in  loneliness.  They 
had  been  no  tomb  of  sorrow,  but  a  lying  screen.  Foolish 
Ariadne  !  with  her  gaze  of  love,  as  if  that  bright  face,  with  its 
hyacinthine  curls  like  tendrils  among  the  vines,  held  the  deep 
secret  of  her  life  ! 

“  Ariadne  is  wonderfully  transformed,”  thought  Romola. 

She  would  look  strange  among  the  vines  and  the  roses 
now.” 

She  took  up  the  mirror,  and  looked  at  herself  once  more. 
But  the  sight  was  so  startling  in  this  morning  light  that  she 
laid  it  down  again,  with  a  sense  of  shrinking  almost  as  strong 
as  that  with  which  she  had  turned  from  the  joyous  Ariadne. 
The  recognition  of  her  own  face,  with  the  cowl  about  it,  brought 
back  the  dread  lest  she  should  be  drawn  at  last  into  fellowsliip 
with  some  wretched  superstition  —  into  the  company  of  the 
howling  fanatics  and  weeping  nuns  who  had  been  her  con¬ 
tempt  from  childhood  till  now.  She  thrust  the  key  into  the 
tabernacle  hurriedly  :  hurriedly  she  opened  it,  and  took  out 
the  crucifix,  without  looking  at  it ;  then,  with  trembling 
fingers,  she  passed  a  cord  through  the  little  ring,  hung  the 
crucifix  round  her  neck,  and  hid  it  in  the  bosom  of  her  mantle. 
“For  Dino’s  sake,”  she  said  to  herself. 

Still  there  were  the  letters  to  be  written  which  Maso  was 
to  carry  back  from  Bologna.  They  were  very  brief.  The  first 
said  — 

“Tito,  my  love  for  you  is  dead;  and  therefore,  so  far  as  I  was 
yours,  I  too  am  dead.  Do  not  try  to  put  in  force  any  laws  for  the 
sake  of  fetching  me  back :  that  would  bring  you  no  happiness.  The 
Romola  you  married  can  never  return.  I  need  explain  nothing  to 
you  after  the  words  I  uttered  to  you  the  last  time  we  spoke  long  to¬ 
gether.  If  you  supposed  them  to  be  words  of  transient  anger,  you 
will  know  now  that  they  were  the  sign  of  an  irreversible  change. 

“  I  think  you  will  fulfil  my  wish  that  my  bridal  chest  should  be 
sent  to  my  godfather,  who  gave  it  me.  It  contains  my  wedding- 
clothes  and  the  portraits  and  other  relics  of  my  father  and  mother.” 

She  folded  the  ring  inside  this  letter,  and  wrote  Tito’g 
name  outside.  The  next  letter  w'as  to  Bernardo  del  Nero  :  — 


346 


ROMOLA. 


Dearest  Godfather,  —  If  I  could  have  been  any  good  to  your 
life  by  staying  I  would  not  have  gone  away  to  a  distance.  But  now 
I  am  gone.  Do  not  ask  the  reason ;  and  if  you  love  my  father,  try  to 
prevent  any  one  from  seeking  me.  I  could  not  bear  my  life  at  Flor¬ 
ence.  I  cannot  bear  to  tell  any  one  why.  Help  to  cover  my  lot  in 
silence.  I  have  asked  that  my  bridal  chest  should  be  sent  to  you: 
when  you  open  it,  you  will  know  the  reason.  Please  to  give  all  the 
things  that  were  my  mother’s  to  my  cousin  Brigida,  and  ask  her  to 
forgive  me  for  not  saying  any  words  of  parting  to  her. 

Farewell,  my  second  father.  The  best  thing  I  have  in  life  is  still 
to  remember  your  goodness  and  be  grateful  to  you.  Romola. 

Eomola  ^ut  the  letters,  along  with  the  crucifix,  within  the 
bosom  of  her  mantle,  and  then  felt  that  everything  was  done 
She  was  ready  now  to  depart. 

No  one  was  stirring  in  the  house,  and  she  went  almost  as 
quietly  as  a  gray  phantom  down  the  stairs  and  into  the  silent 
street.  Her  heart  was  palpitating  violently,  yet  she  enjoyed 
the  sense  of  her  firm  tread  on  the  broad  flags  —  of  the  swift 
movement,  which  was  like  a  chained-up  resolution  set  free  at 
last.  The  anxiety  to  carry  out  her  act,  and  the  dread  of  any 
obstacle,  averted  sorrow ;  and  as  she  reached  the  Ponte  Ruba- 
conte,  she  felt  less  that  Santa  Croce  was  in  her  sight  than  that 
the  yellow  streak  of  morning  which  parted  the  gray  was 
getting  broader  and  broader,  and  that,  unless  she  hastened 
her  steps,  she  should  have  to  encounter  faces. 

Her  simplest  road  was  to  go  right  on  to  the  Borgo  Pinti, 
and  then  along  by  the  walls  to  the  Porta  San  Gallo,  from 
which  she  must  leave  the  city,  and  this  road  carried  her  by 
the  Piazza  di  Santa  Croce.  But  she  walked  as  steadily  and 
rapidly  as  ever  through  the  piazza,  not  trusting  herself  to  look 
towards  the  church.  The  thought  that  any  eyes  might  be 
turned  on  her  with  a  look  of  curiosity  and  recognition,  and 
that  indifferent  minds  might  be  set  speculating  on  her  private 
sorrows,  made  Romola  shrink  physically  as  from  the  imagina¬ 
tion  of  torture.  She  felt  degraded  even  by  that  act  of  her 
husband  from  which  she  was  helplessly  suffering.  But  there 
was  no  sign  that  any  eyes  looked  forth  from  windows  to 
notice  this  tall  gray  sister,  with  the  firm  step,  and  proud  atti- 


THE  TABERNACLE  LNLOCKED. 


847 


tude  of  the  cowled  head.  Her  road  lay  aloof  from  the  stir 
of  early  traffic,  and  when  she  reached  the  Porta  San  Gallo,  it 
was  easy  to  pass  while  a  dispute  was  going  forward  about  the 
toll  for  panniers  of  eggs  and  market  produce  which  were  just 
entering. 

Out !  Once  past  the  houses  of  the  Borgo,  she  would  he 
beyond  the  last  fringe  of  Florence,  the  sky  would  be  broad 
above  her,  and  she  would  have  entered  on  her  new  life  —  a 
life  of  loneliness  and  endurance,  but  of  freedom.  She  had 
been  strong  enough  to  snap  asunder  the  bonds  she  had  ac¬ 
cepted  in  blind  faith  :  whatever  befell  her,  she  would  no  more 
feel  the  breath  of  soft  hated  lips  warm  upon  her  cheek,  no 
longer  feel  the  breath  of  an  odious  mind  stifling  her  own. 
The  bare  wintry  morning,  the  chill  air,  were  welcome  in  their 
severity  :  the  leafless  trees,  the  sombre  hills,  were  not  haunted 
by  the  gods  of  beauty  and  joy,  whose  worship  she  had  forsaken 
forever. 

But  presently  the  light  burst  forth  with  sudden  strength, 
and  shadows  were  thrown  across  the  road.  It  seemed  that 
the  sun  was  going  to  chase  away  the  grayness.  The  light  is 
perhaps  never  felt  more  strongly  as  a  divine  presence  stirring 
all  those  inarticulate  sensibilities  which  are  our  deepest  life, 
than  in  these  moments  when  it  instantaneously  awakens  the 
shadows.  A  certain  awe  which  inevitably  accompanied  this 
most  momentous  act  of  her  life  became  a  more  conscious  ele¬ 
ment  in  Romola’s  feeling  as  she  found  herself  in  the  sudden 
presence  of  the  impalpable  golden  glory  and  the  long  shadow 
of  herself  tlmt  was  not  to  be  escaped.  Hitherto  she  had  met 
no  one  but  an  occasional  contadino  with  mules,  and  the  many 
turnings  of  the  road  on  the  level  prevented  her  from  seeing 
that  ]\Iaso  was  not  very  far  ahead  of  her.  But  when  she  had 
passed  Pietra  and  was  on  rising  ground,  she  lifted  up  the 
hanging  roof  of  her  cowl  and  looked  eagerly  before  her. 

The  cowl  was  dropped  again  immediately.  She  had  seen, 
not  Maso,  but  —  two  monks,  who  were  approaching  within  a 
few  yards  of  her.  The  edge  of  her  cowl  making  a  pent¬ 
house  on  her  brow  had  shut  out  the  objects  above  the 
level  of  her  eyes,  and  for  the  last  few  moments  she  had  been 


B48 


ROMOLA. 


looKing  at  nothing  but  the  brightness  on  the  path  and  at  her 
own  shadow,  tall  and  shrouded  like  a  dread  spectre. 

She  wished  now  that  she  had  not  looked  up.  Her  disguise 
made  her  especially  dislike  to  encounter  monks :  they  might 
expect  some  pious  passwords  of  which  she  knew  nothing,  and 
she  walked  along  with  a  careful  appearance  of  unconsciousness 
till  she  had  seen  the  skirts  of  the  black  mantles  pass  by  her. 
The  encounter  had  made  her  heart  beat  disagreeably,  for 
Romola  had  an  uneasiness  in  her  religious  disguise,  a  shame 
at  this  studied  concealment,  which  was  made  more  distinct  by 
a  special  effort  to  appear  unconscious  under  actual  glances. 

But  the  black  skirts  would  be  gone  the  faster  because  they 
were  going  down-hill ;  and  seeing  a  great  flat  stone  against  a 
cypress  that  rose  from  a  projecting  green  bank,  she  yielded  to 
the  desire  which  the  slight  shock  had  given  her,  to  sit  down 
and  rest.  - 

She  turned  her  back  on  Florence,  not  meaning  to  look  at  it 
till  the  monks  were  quite  out  of  sight ;  and  raising  the  edge 
of  her  cowl  again  when  she  had  seated  herself,  she  discerned 
Maso  and  the  mules  at  a  distance  where  it  was  not  hopeless 
for  her  to  overtake  them,  as  the  old  man  would  probably  linger 
in  expectation  of  her. 

Meanwhile  she  might  pause  a  little.  She  was  free  and 

alone. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

THE  BLACK  MARKS  BECOME  MAGICAL. 

That  journey  of  Tito’s  to  Rome,  which  had  removed  many 
difficulties  from  Romola’s  departure,  had  been  resolved  on  quite 
suddenly,  at  a  supper,  only  the  evening  before. 

Tito  had  set  out  towards  that  supper  with  agreeable  expecta¬ 
tions.  The  meats  were  likely  to  be  delicate,  the  wines  choice, 
the  company  distinguished;  for  the  place  of  entertainment 


THE  BLACK  MARKS  BECOME  MAGICAL.  349 


was  the  Selva  or  Orto  de’  Rucellai,  or,  as  we  should  say,  the 
Rucellai  Gardens ;  and  the  host,  Bernardo  Rucellai,  was  quite 
a  typical  Florentine  grandee.  Even  his  family  name  has  a 
significance  which  is  prettily  symbolic :  properly  understood, 
it  may  bring  before  us  a  little  lichen,  popularly  named  orcella 
or  roccella,  which  grows  on  the  rocks  of  Greek  isles  and  in  the 
Canaries  ;  and  having  drunk  a  great  deal  of  light  into  its  little 
stems  and  button-heads,  will,  under  certain  circumstances,  give 
it  out  again  as  a  reddish  purple  dye,  very  grateful  to  the  eyes 
of  men.  By  bringing  the  excellent  secret  of  this  dye,  called 
oricello,  from  the  Levant  to  Florence,  a  certain  merchant,  who 
lived  nearly  a  hundred  years  before  our  Bernardo's  time,  won 
for  himself  and  his  descendants  much  wealth,  and  the  pleas¬ 
antly  suggestive  surname  of  Oricellari,  or  Roccellari,  which  on 
Tuscan  tongues  speedily  became  Rucellai. 

And  our  Bernardo,  who  stands  out  more  prominently  than 
the  rest  on  this  purple  background,  had  added  all  sorts  of 
distinction  to  the  family  name :  he  had  married  the  sister  of 
Lorenzo  de’  Medici,  and  had  had  the  most  splendid  wedding 
in  the  memory  of  Florentine  upholstery ;  and  for  these  and 
other  virtues  he  had  been  sent  on  embassies  to  France  and 
Venice,  and  had  been  chosen  Gonfaloniere ;  he  had  not  only 
built  himself  a  fine  palace,  but  had  finished  putting  the  black 
and  white  marble  facade  to  the  church  of  Santa  Maria  Novella ; 
he  had  planted  a  garden  with  rare  trees,  and  had  made  it  classic 
ground  by  receiving  within  it  the  meetings  of  the  Platonic 
Academy,  orphaned  by  the  death  of  Lorenzo  ;  he  had  written 
an  excellent,  learned  book,  of  a  new  topographical  sort,  about 
ancient  Rome  ;  he  had  collected  antiquities ;  he  had  a  pure 
Latinity.  The  simplest  account  of  him,  one  sees,  reads  like  a 
laudatory  epitaph,  at  the  end  of  which  the  Greek  and  Ausonian 
Muses  might  be  confidently  requested  to  tear  their  hair,  and 
Nature  to  desist  from  any  second  attempt  to  combine  so  many 
virtues  with  one  set  of  viscera. 

His  invitation  had  been  conveyed  to  Tito  through  Lorenzo 
Tornabuoni,  with  an  emphasis  which  would  have  suggested 
that  the  object  of  the  gathering  was  political,  even  if  the 
public  questions  of  the  time  had  been  less  absorbing.  As  it 


350 


ROMOLA. 


was,  Tito  felt  sure  that  some  party  purposes  were  to  he  fur¬ 
thered  by  the  excellent  flavors  of  stewed  fish  and  old  Greek 
wine ;  for  Bernardo  Rucellai  was  not  simply  an  influential 
personage,  he  was  one  of  the  elect  Twenty  who  for  three 
weeks  had  held  the  reins  of  Florence.  This  assurance  put 
Tito  in  the  best  spirits  as  he  made  his  way  to  the  Via  della 
Scala,  where  the  classic  garden  was  to  be  found :  without  it, 
he  might  have  had  some  uneasy  speculation  as  to  whether  the 
high  company  he  would  have  the  honor  of  meeting  was  likely 
to  be  dull  as  well  as  distinguished ;  for  he  had  had  experience 
of  various  dull  suppers  even  in  the  Bucellai  gardens,  and 
especially  of  the  dull  philosophic  sort,  wherein  he  had  not 
only  been  called  upon  to  accept  an  entire  scheme  of  the 
universe  (which  would  have  been  easy  to  him),  but  to  listen 
to  an  exposition  of  the  same,  from  the  origin  of  things  to 
their  complete  ripeness  in  the  tractate  of  the  philosopher  then 
speaking. 

It  was  a  dark  evening,  and  it  was  only  when  Tito  crossed 
the  occasional  light  of  a  lamp  suspended  before  an  image  of 
the  Virgin,  that  the  outline  of  his  figure  was  discernible  enoiigh 
for  recognition.  At  such  moments  any  one  caring  to  watch 
his  passage  from  one  of  these  lights  to  another  might  have 
observed  that  the  tall  and  graceful  personage  with  the  mantle 
folded  round  him  was  followed  constantly  by  a  very  different 
form,  thick-set  and  elderly,  in  a  serge  tunic  and  felt  hat.  The 
conjunction  might  have  been  taken  for  mere  chance,  since 
there  were  many  passengers  along  the  streets  at  this  hour. 
But  when  Tito  stopped  at  the  gate  of  the  Rucellai  gardens, 
the  figure  behind  stopped  too.  The  sportello,  or  smaller  door 
of  the  gate,  was  already  being  held  open  by  the  servant,  who, 
in  the  distraction  of  attending  to  some  question,  had  not  yet 
closed  it  since  the  last  arrival,  and  Tito  turned  in  rapidly, 
giving  his  name  to  the  servant,  and  passing  on  between  the 
evergreen  bushes  that  shone  like  metal  in  the  torchlight.  The 
follower  turned  in  too. 

“Your  name  ?  ”  said  the  servant. 

“  Baldassarre  Calvo,”  was  the  immediate  answer. 

“  You  are  not  a  guest ;  the  guests  have  all  passed.” 


THE  BLACK  MARKS  BECOME  MAGICAL.  351 


belong  to  Tito  Melema,  who  has  just  gone  in.  I  am  to 
»rait  in  the  gardens.” 

The  servant  hesitated.  “  I  had  orders  to  admit  only  guests. 
Are  you  a  servant  of  Messer  Tito  ?  ” 

“No,  friend,  I  am  not  a  servant ;  I  am  a  scholar.” 

There  are  men  to  whom  you  need  only  say,  "I  am  a 
buffalo,”  in  a  certain  tone  of  quiet  confidence,  and  they  will 
let  you  pass.  The  porter  gave  way  at  once,  Baldassarre 
entered,  and  heard  the  door  closed  and  chained  behind  him,  as 
he  too  disappeared  among  the  shining  bushes. 

Those  ready  and  firm  answers  argued  a  great  change  in 
Baldassarre  since  the  last  meeting  face  to  face  with  Tito, 
when  the  dagger  broke  in  two.  The  change  had  declared 
itself  in  a  startling  way. 

At  the  moment  when  the  shadow  of  Tito  passed  in  front  of 
the  hovel  as  he  departed  homeward,  Baldassarre  was  sitting 
in  that  state  of  after-tremor  known  to  every  one  who  is  liable 
to  great  outbursts  of  passion :  a  state  in  which  physical 
powerlessness  is  sometimes  accompanied  by  an  exceptional 
lucidity  of  thought,  as  if  that  disengagement  of  excited  pas¬ 
sion  had  carried  away  a  fire-mist  and  left  clearness  behind  it. 
He  felt  unable  to  rise  and  walk  away  just  yet ;  his  limbs 
seemed  benumbed ;  he  was  cold,  and  his  hand£  shook.  But  in 
that  bodily  helplessness  he  sat  surrounded,  not  by  the  habitual 
dimness  and  vanishing  shadows,  but  by  the  clear  images  of 
the  past ;  he  was  living  again  in  an  unbroken  course  through 
that  life  which  seemed  a  long  preparation  for  the  taste  of 
bitterness. 

For  some  minutes  he  was  too  thoroughly  absorbed  by  the 
images  to  reflect  on  the  fact  that  he  saw  them,  and  note  the 
fact  as  a  change.  But  when  that  sudden  clearness  had  trav¬ 
elled  through  the  distance,  and  came  at  last  to  rest  on  the 
scene  just  gone  by,  he  felt  fully  where  he  was  :  he  remem« 
hered  Monna  Lisa  and  Tessa.  Ah  !  he  then  was  the  myste¬ 
rious  husband ;  he  who  had  another  wife  in  the  Via  de’  Bardi. 
It  was  time  to  pick  up  the  broken  dagger  and  go  —  go 
and  leave  no  trace  of  himself ;  for  to  hide  his  feebleness 
seemed  the  thing  most  like  power  that  was  left  to  him.  He 


352 


ROMOLA. 


leaned  to  take  up  the  fragments  of  the  dagger;  then  he 
turned  towards  the  book  which  lay  open  at  his  side.  It  was  a 
fine  large  manuscript,  an  odd  volume  of  Pausanias.  The 
moonlight  was  upon  it,  and  he  could  see  the  large  letters  at 
the  head  of  the  page  : 

ME22HNIKA.  KB'. 

In  old  days  he  had  known  Pausanias  familiarly;  yet  an  hour 
or  two  ago  he  had  been  looking  hopelessly  at  that  page,  and  it 
had  suggested  no  more  meaning  to  him  than  if  the  letters  had 
been  black  weather-marks  on  a  wall ;  but  at  this  moment  they 
were  once  more  the  magic  signs  that  conjure  up  a  world. 
That  moonbeam  falling  on  the  letters  had  raised  Messenia 
before  him,  and  its  struggle  against  the  Spartan  oppression. 

He  snatched  up  the  book,  but  the  light  was  too  pale  for  him 
to  read  further  by.  No  matter  :  he  knew  that  chapter ;  he 
read  inwardly.  He  saw  the  stoning  of  the  traitor  Aristocrates 
—  stoned  by  a  whole  people,  who  cast  him  out  from  their 
borders  to  lie  unburied,  and  set  up  a  pillar  with  verses  upon 
it  telling  how  Time  had  brought  home  justice  to  the  unjust. 
The  words  arose  within  him,  and  stirred  innumerable  vibra¬ 
tions  of  memory.  He  forgot  that  he  was  old  ;  he  could  al¬ 
most  have  shouted.  The  light  was  come  again,  mother  of 
knowledge  and  joy !  In  that  exultation  his  limbs  recovered 
their  strength :  he  started  up  with  his  broken  dagger  and 
book,  and  went  out  under  the  broad  moonlight. 

It  was  a  nipping  frosty  air,  but  Baldassarre  could  feel  no 
chill  —  he  only  felt  the  glow  of  conscious  power.  He  walked 
about  aud  paused  on  all  the  open  spots  of  that  high  ground, 
and  looked  down  on  the  domed  and  towered  city,  sleeping 
darkly  under  its  sleeping  guardians,  the  mountains  ;  on  the 
pale  gleam  of  the  river ;  on  the  valley  vanishing  towards  the 
peaks  of  snow  ;  and  felt  himself  master  of  them  all. 

That  sense  of  mental  empire  which  belongs  to  us  all  in 
moments  of  exceptional  clearness  was  intensified  for  him  by 
the  long  days  and  nights  in  which  memory  had  been  little 
more  than  the  consciousness  of  something  gone.  That  city, 
which  had  been  a  weary  labyrinth,  was  material  that  he  could 


THE  BLACK  MARKS  BECOME  MAGICAL.  353 


subdue  to  liis  purposes  now  :  his  mind  glanced  through  its 
affairs  with  flashing  conjecture  ;  he  was  once  more  a  man  who 
knew  cities,  whose  sense  of  vision  was  instructed  with  large 
experience,  and  who  felt  the  keen  delight  of  holding  all  things 
in  the  grasp  of  language.  Names  !  Images !  —  his  mind 
rushed  through  its  wealth  without  pausing,  like  one  who 
enters  on  a  great  inheritance. 

But  amidst  all  that  rushing  eagerness  there  was  one  End 
presiding  in  Baldassarre’s  consciousness,  —  a  dark  deity  in  the 
inmost  cell,  who  only  seemed  forgotten  while  his  hecatomb 
was  being  prepared.  And  when  the  first  triumph  in  the 
certainty  of  recovered  power  had  had  its  way,  his  thoughts 
centred  themselves  on  Tito.  That  fair  slippery  viper  could 
not  escape  him  now  ;  thanks  to  struggling  justice,  the  heart 
that  never  quivered  with  tenderness  for  another  had  its 
sensitive  selfish  fibres  that  could  be  reached  by  the  sharp 
point  of  anguish.  The  soul  that  bowed  to  no  right,  bowed  to 
the  great  lord  of  mortals.  Pain. 

He  could  search  into  every  secret  of  Tito’s  life  now :  he 
knew  some  of  the  secrets  already,  and  the  failure  of  the  broken 
dagger,  which  seemed  like  frustration,  had  been  the  beginning 
of  achievement.  Doubtless  that  sudden  rage  had  shaken  away 
the  obstruction  which  stifled  his  soul.  Twice  before,  when 
his  memory  had  partially  returned,  it  had  been  in  consequence 
of  sudden  excitation :  once  when  he  had  had  to  defend  him¬ 
self  from  an  enraged  dog :  once  when  he  had  been  overtaken 
by  the  waves,  and  had  had  to  scramble  up  a  rock  to  save 
himself. 

Yes,  but  if  this  time,  as  then,  the  light  were  to  die  out,  and 
the  dreary  conscious  blank  come  back  again !  This  time  the 
light  was  stronger  and  steadier ;  but  what  security  was  there 
that  before  the  morrow  the  dark  fog  would  not  be  round  him 
again  ?  Even  the  fear  seemed  like  the  beginning  of  feeble¬ 
ness  :  he  thought  with  alarm  that  he  might  sink  the  faster  for 
this  excited  vigil  of  his  on  the  hill,  which  was  expending  his 
force ;  and  after  seeking  anxiously  for  a  sheltered  corner 
where  he  might  lie  down,  he  nestled  at  last  against  a  heap 
of  warm  garden  straw,  and  so  fell  asleep. 

VOL.  V. 


854 


ROMOLA. 


When  he  opened  his  eyes  again  it  was  daylight.  The  first 
moments  were  filled  with  strange  bewilderment :  he  was  a  man 
with  a  double  identity ;  to  which  had  he  awaked  ?  to  the  life 
of  dim-sighted  sensibilities  like  the  sad  heirship  of  some  fallen 
greatness,  or  to  the  life  of  recovered  power  ?  Surely  the  last, 
for  the  events  of  the  night  all  came  back  to  him :  the  recog¬ 
nition  of  the  page  in  Pausanias,  the  crowding  resurgence  of 
facts  and  names,  the  sudden  wide  prospect  which  had  given 
him  such  a  moment  as  that  of  the  Maenad  in  the  glorious 
amaze  of  her  morning  waking  on  the  mountain  top. 

He  took  up  the  book  again,  he  read,  he  remembered  without 
reading.  He  saw  a  name,  and  the  images  of  deeds  rose  with 
it :  he  saw  the  mention  of  a  deed,  and  he  linked  it  with  a 
name.  There  were  stories  of  inexpiable  crimes,  but  stories 
also  of  guilt  that  seemed  successful.  There  were  sanctuaries 
for  swift-footed  miscreants :  baseness  had  its  armor,  and  the 
weapons  of  justice  sometimes  broke  against  it.  What  then  ? 
If  baseness  triumphed  everywhere  else,  if  it  could  heap  to 
itself  all  the  goods  of  the  world  and  even  hold  the  keys  of 
hell,  it  would  never  triumph  over  the  hatred  which  it  had 
itself  awakened.  It  could  devise  no  torture  that  would  seem 
greater  than  the  torture  of  submitting  to  its  smile.  Baldas- 
sarre  felt  the  indestructible  independent  force  of  a  supreme 
emotion,  which  knows  no  terror,  and  asks  for  no  motive,  which 
is  itself  an  ever-burning  motive,  consuming  all  other  desire. 
And  now  in  this  morning  light,  when  the  assurance  came 
again  that  the  fine  fibres  of  association  were  active  still,  and 
that  his  recovered  self  had  not  departed,  all  his  gladness  was 
but  the  hope  of  vengeance. 

From  that  time  till  the  evening  on  which  we  have  seen  him 
enter  the  Rucellai  gardens,  he  had  been  incessantly,  but  cau¬ 
tiously,  inquiring  into  Tito’s  position  and  all  his  circumstances, 
and  there  was  hardly  a  day  on  which  he  did  not  contrive  to 
follow  his  movements.  But  he  wished  not  to  arouse  any 
alarm  in  Tito :  he  wished  to  secure  a  moment  when  the  hated 
favorite  of  blind  fortune  was  at  the  summit  of  confident  ease, 
surrounded  by  chief  men  on  whose  favor  he  depended.  It 
was  not  any  retributive  payment  or  recognition  of  himself  for 


A  SUPPER  IN  THE  RUCELLAI  GARDENS. 


355 


iiis  own  behoof,  on  which  Baldassarre’s  whole  soul  was  bent : 
it  was  to  find  the  sharpest  edge  of  disgrace  and  shame  by 
which  a  selfish  smiler  could  be  pierced  ;  it  was  to  send  through 
his  marrow  the  most  sudden  shock  of  dread.  He  was  content 
to  lie  hard,  and  live  stintedly  —  he  had  spent  the  greater  part 
of  his  remaining  money  in  buying  another  poniard :  his  hun¬ 
ger  and  his  thirst  were  after  nothing  exquisite  but  an  exqui¬ 
site  vengeance.  He  had  avoided  addressing  himself  to  any  one 
whom  he  suspected  of  intimacy  with  Tito,  lest  an  alarm  raised 
in  Tito’s  mind  should  urge  him  either  to  flight  or  to  some 
other  counteracting  measure  which  hard-pressed  ingenuity 
might  devise.  For  this  reason  he  had  never  entered  Nello’s 
shop,  which  he  observed  that  Tito  frequented,  and  he  had 
turned  aside  to  avoid  meeting  Piero  di  Oosimo. 

The  possibility  of  frustration  gave  added  eagerness  to  his 
desire  that  the  great  opportunity  he  sought  should  not  be  de¬ 
ferred.  The  desire  was  eager  in  him  on  another  ground ;  he 
trembled  lest  his  memory  should  go  again.  Whether  from 
the  agitating  presence  of  that  fear,  or  from  some  other  causes, 
he  had  twice  felt  a  sort  of  mental  dizziness,  in  which  the  in¬ 
ward  sense  or  imagination  seemed  to  be  losing  the  distinct 
forms  of  things.  Once  he  had  attempted  to  enter  the  Palazzo 
Vecchio  and  make  his  way  into  a  council-chamber  where  Tito 
was,  and  had  failed.  But  now,  on  this  evening,  he  felt  that 
his  occasion  was  come. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

A  SUPPER  IN  THE  RUCELLAI  GARDENS. 

On  entering  the  handsome  pavilion,  Tito’s  quick  glance 
soon  discerned  in  the  selection  of  the  guests  the  confirmation 
of  his  conjecture  that  the  object  of  the  goThering  was  political, 
though,  perhaps,  nothing  more  distinct  than  that  strengthen¬ 
ing  of  party  which  comes^from  good-fellowship.  Good  dishes 


356 


EOMOLA. 


and  good  wine  were  at  that  time  believed  to  heighten  the  con¬ 
sciousness  of  political  preferences,  and  in  the  inspired  ease  of 
after-supper  talk  it  was  supposed  that  people  ascertained  their 
own  opinions  with  a  clearness  quite  inaccessible  to  uninvited 
stomachs.  The  Florentines  were  a  sober  and  frugal  people  ; 
but  wherever  men  have  gathered  wealth,  Madonna  della 
Gozzoviglia  and  San  Buonvino  have  had  their  worshippers ; 
and  the  Kucellai  were  among  the  few  Florentine  families  who 
kept  a  great  table  and  lived  splendidly.  It  was  not  probable 
that  on  this  evening  there  would  be  any  attempt  to  apply  high 
philosophic  theories  ;  and  there  could  be  no  objection  to  the 
bust  of  Plato  looking  on,  or  even  to  the  modest  presence  of 
the  cardinal  virtues  in  fresco  on  the  walls. 

That  bust  of  Plato  had  been  long  used  to  look  down  on 
conviviality  of  a  more  transcendental  sort,  for  it  had  been 
brought  from  Lorenzo’s  villa  after  his  death,  when  the  meet¬ 
ings  of  the  Platonic  Academy  had  been  transferred  to  these 
gardens.  Especially  on  every  13th  of  November,  reputed 
anniversary  of  Plato’s  death,  it  had  looked  down  from  under 
laurel  leaves  an  a  picked  company  of  scholars  and  philoso¬ 
phers,  who  met  to  eat  and  drink  with  moderation,  and  to 
discuss  and  admire,  perhaps  with  less  moderation,  the  doc¬ 
trines  of  the  great  master  :  —  on  Pico  della  Mirandola,  once  a 
Quixotic  young  genius  with  long  curls,  astonished  at  his  own 
powers  and  astonishing  Rome  with  heterodox  theses ;  after¬ 
wards  a  more  humble  student  with  a  consuming  passion  for 
inward  perfection,  having  come  to  find  the  universe  more 
astonishing  than  his  own  cleverness  :  —  on  innocent,  laborious 
Marsilio  Ficino,  picked  out  young  to  be  reared  as  a  Platonic 
philosopher,  and  fed  on  Platonism  in  all  its  stages  till  his 
mind  was  perhaps  a  little  pulpy  from  that  too  exclusive  diet : 
—  on  Angelo  Poliziano,  chief  literary  genius  of  that  age,  a 
born  poet,  and  a  scholar  without  dulness,  whose  phrases  had 
blood  in  them  and  are  alive  still :  —  or,  further  back,  on  Leon 
Battista  Alberti,  a  reverend  senior  when  those  three  were 
young,  and  of  a  much  grander  type  than  they,  a  robust,  uni¬ 
versal  mind,  at  once  practical  and  theoretic^  artist,  man  of 
science,  inventor,  poet :  —  and  on  many  more  valiant  workers 


A  SUPPER  IN  THE  RUCELLAI  GARDENS. 


S57 


whose  names  are  not  registered  where  every  day  we  turn  the 
leaf  to  read  them,  but  whose  labors  make  a  part,  though  an 
unrecognized  part,  of  our  inheritance,  like  the  ploughing  and 
sowing  of  past  generations. 

Bernai'do  Rucellai  was  a  man  to  hold  a  distinguished  place 
in  that  Academy  even  before  he  became  its  host  and  patron. 
He  was  still  in  the  prime  of  life,  not  more  than  four  and 
forty,  with  a  somewhat  haughty,  cautiously  dignified  pres¬ 
ence  ;  conscious  of  an  amazingly  pure  Latinity,  but,  says  Eras¬ 
mus,  not  to  be  caught  speaking  Latin  —  no  word  of  Latin  to 
•  be  sheared  off  him  by  the  sharpest  of  Teutons.  He  welcomed 
Tito  with  more  marked  favor  than  usual  and  gave  him  a  place 
between  Lorenzo  Tornabuoni  and  Giannozzo  Pucci,  both  of 
them  accomplished  young  members  of  the  Medicean  party. 

Of  course  the  talk  was  the  lightest  in  the  world  while  the 
brass  bowl  filled  with  scented  water  was  passing  round,  that 
the  company  might  wash  their  hands,  and  rings  flashed  on 
white  fingers  under  the  wax-lights,  and  there  was  the  pleasant 
fragrance  of  fresh  white  damask  newly  come  from  FrancOo 
The  tone  of  remark  was  a  very  common  one  in  those  times. 
Some  one  asked  what  Dante’s  pattern  old  Florentine  would 
think  if  the  life  could  come  into  him  again  under  his  leathern 
belt  and  bone  clasp,  and  he  could  see  silver  forks  on  the 
table  ?  And  it  was  agreed  on  all  hands  that  the  habits  of 
posterity  would  be  very  surprising  to  ancestors,  if  ancestors 
could  only  know  them. 

And  while  the  silver  forks  were  just  dallying  with  the 
appetizing  delicacies  that  introduced  the  more  serious  business 
of  the  supper  —  such  as  morsels  of  liver,  cooked  to  that  exqui¬ 
site  point  that  they  would  melt  in  the  mouth — there  was 
time  to  admire  the  designs  on  the  enamelled  silver  centres  of 
the  brass  service,  and  to  say  something,  as  usual,  about  the 
silver  dish  for  confetti,  a  masterpiece  of  Antonio  Pollajuolo, 
whom  patronizing  Popes  had  seduced  from  his  native  Florence 
to  more  gorgeous  Rome. 

“  Ah,  I  remember,”  said  Niccol6  Ridolfi,  a  middle-aged 
man,  with  that  negligent  ease  of  manner  which,  seeming  to 
claim  nothing,  is  really  based  on  the  life-long  consciousness  of 


B58 


ROMOLA. 


commanding  rank  —  “I  remember  our  Antonio  getting  bitter 
about  his  chiselling  and  enamelling  of  these  metal  things,  and 
taking  in  a  fury  to  painting,  because,  said  he,  ‘  the  artist  who 
puts  his  work  into  gold  and  silver,  puts  his  brains  into  the 
melting-pot.’  ” 

‘‘  And  that  is  not  unlikely  to  be  a  true  foreboding  of  Anto¬ 
nio’s,”  said  Giannozzo  Pucci.  “  If  this  pretty  war  with  Pisa 
goes  on,  and  the  revolt  only  spreads  a  little  to  our  other 
towns,  it  is  not  only  our  silver  dishes  that  are  likely  to  go ;  I 
doubt  whether  Antonio’s  silver  saints  round  the  altar  of  San 
Giovanni  will  not  some  day  vanish  from  the  eyes  of  the  faith¬ 
ful  to  be  worshipped  more  devoutly  in  the  form  of  coin.” 

“  The  Prate  is  preparing  us  for  that  already,”  said  Torna- 
buoni.  “He  is  telling  the  people  that  God  will  not  have 
silver  crucifixes  and  starving  stomachs ;  and  that  the  church 
is  best  adorned  with  the  gems  of  holiness  and  the  fine  gold  of 
brotherly  love.” 

“  A  very  useful  doctrine  of  war-finance,  as  many  a  Condot- 
tiere  has  found,”  said  Bernardo  Rucellai,  dryly.  “  But  politics 
come  on  after  the  confetti,  Lorenzo,  when  we  can  drink  wine 
enough  to  wash  them  down ;  they  are  too  solid  to  be  taken 
with  roast  and  boiled.” 

“Yes,  indeed,”  said  Niccolb  Bidolfi.  “Our  Luigi  Pulci 
would  have  said  this  delicate  boiled  kid  must  be  eaten  with  an 
impartial  mind.  I  remember  one  day  at  Careggi,  when  Luigi 
was  in  his  rattling  vein,  he  was  maintaining  that  nothing  per¬ 
verted  the  palate  like  opinion.  ‘  Opinion,’  said  he,  ‘  corrupts 
the  saliva  —  that ’s  why  men  took  to  pepper.  Scepticism  is 
the  only  philosophy  that  does  n’t  bring  a  taste  in  the  mouth.’ 
‘  iSTay,’  says  poor  Lorenzo  de’  Medici,  ‘you  must  be  out  there, 
Luigi  Here  is  this  untainted  sceptic,  Matteo  Franco,  who 
wants  hotter  sauce  than  any  of  us.’  ‘  Because  he  has  a  strong 
opinion  of  himself’  flashes  out  Luigi,  ‘  which  is  the  original 
egg  of  all  other  opinion.  He  a  sceptic  ?  He  believes  in  the 
immortality  of  his  own  verses.  He  is  such  a  logician  as  that 
preaching  friar  who  described  the  pavement  of  the  bottomless 
pit.’  Poor  Luigi !  his  mind  was  like  sharpest  steel  that  can 
touch  nothing  without  cutting.” 


A  SUPPER  IN  THE  RUCELLAI  GARDENS.  359 


“And  yet  a  very  gentle-hearted  creature,”  said  Giannozzo 
Pucci.  “  It  seemed  to  me  his  talk  was  a  mere  blowing  of  soap- 
bubbles.  What  dithyrambs  he  went  into  about  eating  and 
drinking !  and  yet  he  was  as  temperate  as  a  butterfly,” 

The  light  talk  and  the  solid  eatables  were  not  soon  at  an 
end,  for  after  the  roast  and  boiled  meats  came  the  indispensa¬ 
ble  capon  and  game,  and,  crowning  glory  of  a  well-spread 
table,  a  peacock  cooked  according  to  the  receipt  of  Apicius  for 
cooking  partridges,  namely,  with  the  feathers  on,  but  not 
plucked  afterwards,  as  that  great  authority  ordered  concern¬ 
ing  his  partridges  ;  on  the  contrary,  so  disposed  on  the  dish 
that  it  might  look  as  much  as  possible  like  a  live  peacock  tak¬ 
ing  its  unboiled  repose.  Great  was  the  skill  required  in  that 
confidential  servant  who  was  the  official  carver,  respectfully  to 
turn  the  classical  though  insipid  bird  on  its  back,  and  expose 
the  plucked  breast  from  which  he  was  to  dispense  a  delicate 
slice  to  each  of  the  honorable  company,  unless  any  one  should 
be  of  so  independent  a  mind  as  to  decline  that  expensive 
toughness  and  prefer  the  vulgar  digestibility  of  capon. 

Hardly  any  one  was  so  bold.  Tito  quoted  Horace  and  dis¬ 
persed  his  slice  in  small  particles  over  his  plate;  Bernardo 
Rucellai  made  a  learned  observation  about  the  ancient  price 
of  peacocks’  eggs,  but  did  not  pretend  to  eat  his  slice ;  and 
Niccolb  Bidolfi  held  a  mouthful  on  his  fork  while  he  told  a 
favorite  story  of  Luigi  Pulci’s,  about  a  man  of  Siena,  who, 
wanting  to  give  a  splendid  entertainment  at  moderate  expense, 
bought  a  wild  goose,  cut  off  its  beak  and  webbed  feet,  and 
boiled  it  in  its  feathers,  to  pass  for  a  pea-hen. 

In  fact,  very  little  peacock  was  eaten ;  but  there  was  the 
satisfaction  of  sitting  at  a  table  where  peacock  was  served  up 
in  a  remarkable  manner,  and  of  knowing  that  such  caprices 
were  not  within  reach  of  any  but  those  who  supped  with  the 
very  wealthiest  men.  And  it  would  have  been  rashness  to 
speak  slightingly  of  peacock’s  flesh,  or  any  other  venerable 
institution,  at  a  time  when  Fra  Girolamo  was  teaching  the  dis¬ 
turbing  doctrine  that  it  was  not  the  duty  of  the  rich  to  be 
luxurious  for  the  sake  of  the  poor. 

Meanwhile,  in  the  chill  obscurity  that  surrounded  this  centre 


EOMOLA. 


S60' 

of  warmth,  and  light,  and  savory  odors,  the  lonely  disowned 
man  was  walking  in  gradually  narrowing  circuits.  He  paused 
among  the  trees,  and  looked  in  at  the  windows,  which  made 
brilliant  pictures  against  the  gloom.  He  could  hear  the 
laughter;  he  could  see  Tito  gesticulating  with  careless  grace, 
and  hear  his  voice,  now  alone,  now  mingling  in  the  merry  con¬ 
fusion  of  interlacing  speeches.  Baldassarre’s  mind  was  highly 
strung.  He  was  preparing  himself  for  the  moment  when  he 
could  win  his  entrance  into  this  brilliant  company;  and  he 
had  a  savage  satisfaction  in  the  sight  of  Tito’s  easy  gayety, 
which  seemed  to  be  preparing  the  unconscious  victim  for  more 
effective  torture. 

But  the  men  seated  among  the  branching  tapers  and  the 
flashing  cups  could  know  nothing  of  the  pale  fierce  face  that 
watched  them  from  without.  The  light  can  be  a  curtain  as 
well  as  the  darkness. 

And  the  talk  went  on  with  more  eagerness  as  it  became  less 
disconnected  and  trivial.  The  sense  of  citizenship  was  just 
then  strongly  forced  even  on  the  most  indifferent  minds. 
What  the  overmastering  Fra  Girolamo  was  saying  and  prompt¬ 
ing  was  really  uppermost  in  the  thoughts  of  every  one  at 
table  ;  and  before  the  stewed  fish  was  removed,  and  while  the 
favorite  sweets  were  yet  to  come,  his  name  rose  to  the  surface 
of  the  conversation,  and,  in  spite  of  Rucellai’s  previous  prohibi¬ 
tion,  the  talk  again  became  political.  At  first,  while  the  ser¬ 
vants  remained  present,  it  was  mere  gossip :  what  had  been 
done  in  the  Palazzo  on  the  first  day’s  voting  for  the  Great 
Council,  how  hot-tempered  and  domineering  Francesco  Valori 
was,  as  if  he  were  to  have  everything  his  own  way  by  right  of 
his  austere  virtue ;  and  how  it  was  elear  to  everybody  who 
heard  Soderini’s  speeches  in  favor  of  the  Great  Council  and 
also  heard  the  Frate’s  sermons,  that  they  were  both  kneaded 
in  the  same  trough. 

“My  opinion  is,”  said  Niccolb  Ridolfi,  “that  the  Frate 
has  a  longer  head  for  public  matters  than  Soderini  or  any 
Piagnone  among  them  :  you  may  depend  on  it  that  Soderini 
is  his  mouthpiece  more  than  he  is  Soderini’s.” 

“  No,  Niccolb ;  there  I  differ  from  you,”  said  Bernardo 


A  SUPPER  IN  THE  RUCELLAI  GARDENS.  S6l 


Rucellai:  ‘Hhe  Frate  has  an  acute  mind,  and  readily  sees 
what  will  serve  his  own  ends ;  but  it  is  not  likely  that  Pago- 
lantonio  Soderini,  who  has  had  long  experience  of  affairs,  and 
has  specially  studied  the  Venetian  Council,  should  be  much 
indebted  to  a  monk  for  ideas  on  that  subject.  No,  no ;  Sod- 
erini  loads  the  cannon  ;  though,  I  grant  you.  Fra  Girolamo 
brings  the  powder  and  lights  the  match.  He  is  master  of  the 
people,  and  the  people  are  getting  master  of  us.  Ecco !  ” 

“  Well,’^  said  Lorenzo  Tornabuoni,  presently,  when  the  room 
was  clear  of  servants,  and  nothing  but  wine  was  passing 
round,  “  whether  Soderini  is  indebted  or  not,  ive  are  indebted 
to  the  Frate  for  the  general  amnesty  which  has  gone  along 
with  the  scheme  of  the  Council.  We  might  have  done  with¬ 
out  the  fear  of  God  and  the  reform  of  morals  being  passed  by 
a  majority  of  black  beans  ;  but  that  excellent  proposition,  that 
our  Medicean  heads  should  be  allowed  to  remain  comfortably 
on  our  shoulders,  and  that  we  should  not  be  obliged  to  hand 
over  our  property  in  fines,  has  my  warm  approval,  and  it  is 
my  belief  that  nothing  but  the  Frate’s  predominance  could 
have  procured  that  for  us.  And  you  may  rely  on  it  that  Fra 
Girolamo  is  as  firm  as  a  rock  on  that  point  of  promoting  peace. 
1  have  had  an  interview  with  him.” 

There  was  a  murmur  of  surprise  and  curiosity  at  the  farther 
end  of  the  table  ;  but  Bernardo  Rucellai  simply  nodded,  as 
if  he  knew  what  Tornabuoni  had  to  say,  and  wished  him  to 
go  on. 

“Yes,”  proceeded  Tornabuoni,  “I  have  been  favored  with 
an  interview  in  the  Frate’s  own  cell,  which,  let  me  tell  you,  is 
not  a  common  favor ;  for  I  have  reason  to  believe  that  even 
Francesco  Valori  very  seldom  sees  him  in  private.  However, 
I  think  he  saw  me  the  more  willingly  because  I  was  not  a 
ready-made  follower,  but  had  to  be  converted.  And,  for  my 
part,  I  see  clearly  enough  that  the  only  safe  and  wise  policy 
for  us  Mediceans  to  pursue  is  to  throw  our  strength  into  the 
scale  of  the  Frate’s  party.  We  are  not  strong  enough  to  make 
head  on  our  own  behalf ;  and  if  the  Frate  and  the  popular 
party  were  upset,  every  one  who  hears  me  knows  perfectly 
well  what  other  party  would  be  uppermost  just  now ;  Nerli, 


8G2 


ROMOLA. 


Alberti,  Pazzi,  and  the  rest  —  Arrabbiati,  as  somebody  chriB- 
tened  them  the  other  day  —  who,  instead  of  giving  us  an 
amnesty,  would  be  inclined  to  fly  at  our  throats  like  mad 
dogs,  and  not  be  satisfied  till  they  had  banished  half  of  us.’’ 

There  were  strong  interjections  of  assent  to  this  last  sen¬ 
tence  of  Toruabuoni’s,  as  he  paused  and  looked  round  a 
moment. 

‘‘A  wise  dissimulation,”  he  went  on,  “is  the  only  course  for 
moderate  rational  men  in  times  of  violent  party  feeling.  I 
need  hardly  tell  this  company  what  are  my  real  political 
attachments :  I  am  not  the  only  man  here  who  has  strong 
personal  ties  to  the  banished  family ;  but,  apart  from  any 
such  ties,  I  agree  with  my  more  experienced  friends,  who  are 
allowing  me  to  speak  for  them  in  their  presence,  that  the  only 
lasting  and  peaceful  state  of  things  for  Florence  is  the  pre¬ 
dominance  of  some  single  family  interest.  This  theory  of  the 
Frate’s,  that  we  are  to  have  a  popular  government,  in  which 
every  man  is  to  strive  only  for  the  general  good,  and  know  no 
party  names,  is  a  theory  that  may  do  for  some  isle  of  Cristo- 
foro  Colombo’s  finding,  but  will  never  do  for  our  fine  old 
quarrelsome  Florence.  A  change  must  come  before  long,  and 
with  patience  and  caution  we  have  every  chance  of  determin¬ 
ing  the  change  in  our  favor.  Meanwhile,  the  best  thing  we 
can  do  will  be  to  keep  the  Frate’s  flag  flying,  for  if  any  other 
were  to  be  hoisted  just  now  it  would  be  a  black  flag  for  us.” 

“  It ’s  true,”  said  Niccolb  Pidolfi,  in  a  curt  decisive  way. 
“  What  you  say  is  true,  Lorenzo.  For  my  own  part,  I  am  too 
old  for  anybody  to  believe  that  I ’ve  changed  my  feathers. 
And  there  are  certain  of  us  —  our  old  Bernardo  del  Nero  for 
one  —  whom  you  would  never  persuade  to  borrow  another 
man’s  shield.  But  we  can  lie  still,  like  sleepy  old  dogs ;  and 
it  ’s  clear  enough  that  barking  would  be  of  no  use  just  now. 
As  for  this  psalm-singing  party,  who  vote  for  nothing  but  the 
glory  of  God,  and  want  to  make  believe  we  can  all  love  each 
other,  and  talk  as  if  vice  could  be  swept  out  with  a  besom  by 
the  Magnificent  Eight,  their  day  will  not  be  a  long  one.  After 
all  the  talk  of  scholars,  there  are  but  two  sorts  of  government: 
one  where  men  show  their  teeth  at  each  other,  and  one  where 


A  SUPPER  IN  THE  RUCELLAI  GARDENS.  363 


men  show  tlieir  tongues  and  lick  the  feet  of  the  strongest. 
They  ’ll  get  their  Great  Council  finally  voted  to-morrow  — 
that ’s  certain  enough  —  and  they  ’ll  think  they  ’ve  found  out 
a  new  plan  of  government ;  but  as  sure  as  there ’s  a  human 
skin  under  every  lucco  in  the  Council,  their  new  plan  will  end 
like  every  other,  in  snarling  or  in  licking.  That ’s  my  view  of 
things  as  a  plain  man.  Not  that  I  consider  it  becoming  in 
men  of  family  and  following,  who  have  got  others  depending 
on  their  constancy  and  on  their  sticking  to  their  colors,  to  go 
a-hunting  with  a  fine  net  to  catch  reasons  in  the  air,  like  doc¬ 
tors  of  law.  I  say  frankly  that,  as  the  head  of  my  family,  I 
shall  be  true  to  my  old  alliances ;  and  I  have  never  yet  seen 
any  chalk-mark  on  political  reasons  to  tell  me  which  is  true 
and  which  is  false.  My  friend  Bernardo  Rucellai  here  is  a 
man  of  reasons,  I  know,  and  I  have  no  objection  to  anybody’s 
finding  fine-spun  reasons  for  me,  so  that  they  don’t  interfere 
with  my  actions  as  a  man  of  family  who  has  faith  to  keep 
with  his  connections.” 

“  If  that  is  an  appeal  to  me,  Niccolb,”  said  Bernardo  Rucel¬ 
lai,  with  a  formal  dignity,  in  amusing  contrast  with  Ridolfi’s 
curt  and  pithy  ease,  “  I  may  take  this  opportunity  of  saying, 
that  while  my  wishes  are  partly  determined  by  long-standing 
personal  relations,  I  cannot  enter  into  any  positive  schemes 
with  persons  over  whose  actions  I  have  no  control.  I  myself 
might  be  content  with  a  restoration  of  the  old  order  of  things ; 
but  with  modifications  —  with  important  modifications.  And 
the  one  point  on  which  I  wish  to  declare  my  concurrence  with 
Lorenzo  Tornabuoni  is,  that  the  best  policy  to  be  pursued  by 
our  friends  is,  to  throw  the  weight  of  their  interest  into  the 
scale  of  the  popular  party.  For  myself,  I  condescend  to  no 
dissimulation ;  nor  do  I  at  present  see  the  party  or  the  scheme 
that  commands  my  full  assent.  In  all  alike  there  is  crudity 
and  confusion  of  ideas,  and  of  all  the  twenty  men  who  a7e 
my  colleagues  in  the  present  crisis,  there  is  not  one  with  whom 
I  do  not  find  myself  in  wide  disagreement.” 

Niccolb  Ridolfi  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  left  it  to  some 
one  else  to  take  up  the  ball.  As  the  wine  went  round  the  talk 
became  more  and  more  frank  and  lively,  and  the  desire  of 


364 


ROMOLA. 


several  at  once  to  be  the  chief  speaker,  as  usual  caused  the 
company  to  break  up  into  small  knots  of  two  and  three. 

It  was  a  result  which  had  been  foreseen  by  Lorenzo  Torna- 
buoni  and  Giannozzo  Pucci,  and  they  were  among  the  first  to 
turn  aside  from  the  highroad  of  general  talk  and  enter  into  a 
special  conversation  with  Tito,  who  sat  between  them ;  gradu¬ 
ally  pushing  away  their  seats,  and  turning  their  backs  on  the 
table  and  wine. 

“  In  truth,  Melema,”  Tornabuoni  was  saying  at  this  stage, 
laying  one  hose-clad  leg  across  the  knee  of  the  other,  and 
caressing  his  ankle,  “  I  know  of  no  man  in  Florence  who  can 
serve  our  party  better  than  you.  You  see  what  most  of  our 
friends  are :  men  who  can  no  more  hide  their  prejudices  than 
a  dog  can  hide  the  natural  tone  of  his  bark,  or  else  men  whose 
political  ties  are  so  notorious,  that  they  must  always  be  objects 
of  suspicion.  Giannozzo  here,  and  I,  I  flatter  myself,  are  able 
to  overcome  that  suspicion ;  we  have  that  power  of  conceal¬ 
ment  and  finesse,  without  which  a  rational  cultivated  man, 
instead  of  having  any  prerogative,  is  really  at  a  disadvantage 
compared  with  a  wild  bull  or  a  savage.  But,  except  yourself, 
I  know  of  no  one  else  on  whom  we  could  rely  for  the  necessary 
discretion.” 

^‘Yes,”  said  Giannozzo  Pucci,  laying  his  hand  on  Tito’s 
shoulder,  the  fact  is,  Tito  inio,  you  can  help  us  better  than  if 
you  were  Ulysses  himself,  for  I  am  convinced  that  Ulysses 
often  made  himself  disagreeable.  To  manage  men  one  ought 
to  have  a  sharp  mind  in  a  velvet  sheath.  And  there  is  not  a 
soul  in  Florence  who  could  undertake  a  business  like  this 
journey  to  Rome,  for  example,  with  the  same  safety  that  you 
can.  There  is  your  scholarship,  which  may  always  be  a  pre¬ 
text  for  such  journeys  ;  and  what  is  better,  there  is  your  talent, 
which  it  would  be  harder  to  match  than  your  scholarship. 
Niccolh  Macchiavelli  might  have  done  for  us  if  he  had  been 
on  our  side,  but  hardly  so  well.  He  is  too  much  bitten  with 
notions,  and  has  not  your  power  of  fascination.  All  the  worse 
for  him.  He  has  lost  a  great  chance  in  life,  and  you  have 
got  it.” 

“  Yes,”  said  Tornabuoni,  lowering  his  voice  in  a  significant 


A  SUPPER  IN  THE  RUCELLAI  GARDENS. 


865 


fianner,  ^^you  liave  only  to  play  your  game  well,  Melema,  and 
the  future  belongs  to  yon.  For  the  Medici,  you  may  rely  upon 
it,  will  keep  a  foot  in  Rome  as  well  as  in  E’lorence,  and  the 
time  may  not  be  far  off  when  they  will  be  able  to  make  a  finer 
career  for  their  adherents  even  than  they  did  in  old  days. 
Why  should  n^t  you  take  orders  some  day  ?  There ’s  a  cardi¬ 
nal’s  hat  at  the  end  of  that  road,  and  you  would  not  be  the 
first  Greek  who  has  worn  that  ornament.” 

Tito  laughed  gayly.  He  was  too  acute  not  to  measure  Tor- 
nabuoni’s  exaggerated  flattery,  but  still  the  flattery  had  a 
pleasant  flavor. 

‘^My  joints  are  not  so  stiff  yet,”  he  said,  “that  I  can’t  be 
induced  to  run  without  such  a  high  prize  as  that.  I  think  the 
income  of  an  abbey  or  two  held  ‘  in  commendam,’  without  the 
trouble  of  getting  my  head  shaved,  would  satisfy  me  at 
present.” 

“I  was  not  joking,”  said  Tornabuoni,  with  grave  suavity; 
“  I  think  a  scholar  would  always  be  the  better  off  for  taking 
orders.  But  we  ’ll  talk  of  that  another  time.  One  of  the 
objects  to  be  first  borne  in  mind,  is  that  you  should  win  the 
confidence  of  the  men  who  hang  about  San  Marco ;  that  is 
what  Giannozzo  and  I  shall  do,  but  you  may  carry  it  farther 
than  we  can,  because  you  are  less  observed.  In  that  way  you 
can  get  a  thorough  knowledge  of  their  doings,  and  you  will 
make  a  broader  screen  for  your  agency  on  our  side.  Nothing 
of  course  can  be  done  before  you  start  for  Rome,  because  this 
bit  of  business  between  Piero  de’  Medici  and  the  French  nobles 
must  be  effected  at  once.  I  mean  when  you  come  back,  of 
course;  I  need  say  no  more.  I  believe  you  could  make  your¬ 
self  the  pet  votary  of  San  Marco,  if  you  liked ;  but  you  are 
wise  enough  to  know  that  effective  dissimulation  is  never 
immoderate.” 

“  If  it  were  not  that  an  adhesion  to  the  popular  side  is  nec¬ 
essary  to  your  safety  as  an  agent  of  our  party,  Tito  mio,”  said 
Giannozzo  Pucci,  who  was  more  fraternal  and  less  patronizing 
in  his  manner  than  Tornabuoni,  “I  could  have  wished  your 
skill  to  have  been  employed  in  another  way,  for  which  it  ia 
still  better  fitted.  But  now  we  must  look  out  for  some  other 


366 


ROMOLA, 


man  among  us  who  will  manage  to  get  into  the  confidence  of 
our  sworn  enemies,  the  Arrabbiati ;  we  need  to  know  their 
movements  more  than  those  of  the  Frate’s  party,  who  are 
strong  enough  to  play  above-board.  Still,  it  would  have  been 
a  difficult  thing  for  you,  from  your  known  relations  with  the 
Medici  a  little  while  back,  and  that  sort  of  kinship  your  wife 
has  with  Bernardo  del  Nero.  We  must  find  a  man  who  has 
no  distinguished  connections,  and  who  has  not  yet  taken  any 
side.” 

Tito  was  pushing  his  hair  backward  automatically,  as  his 
manner  was,  and  looking  straight  at  Pucci  with  a  scarcely 
perceptible  smile  on  his  lip. 

“No  need  to  look  out  for  any  one  else,”  he  said,  promptly. 
“I  can  manage  the  whole  business  with  perfect  ease.  I  will 
engage  to  make  myself  the  special  confidant  of  that  thick¬ 
headed  Dolfo  Spini,  and  know  his  projects  before  he  knows 
them  himself.” 

Tito  seldom  spoke  so  confidently  of  his  own  powers,  but  he 
was  in  a  state  of  exaltation  at  the  sudden  opening  of  a  new 
path  before  him,  where  fortune  seemed  to  have  hung  higher 
prizes  than  any  he  had  thought  of  hitherto.  Hitherto  he  had 
seen  success  only  in  the  form  of  favor ;  it  now  flashed  on  him 
in  the  shape  of  power  —  of  such  power  as  is  possible  to  talent 
without  traditional  ties,  and  without  beliefs.  Each  party  that 
thought  of  him  as  a  tool  might  become  dependent  on  him. 
His  position  as  an  alien,  his  indifference  to  the  ideas  or  preju¬ 
dices  of  the  men  among  whom  he  moved,  were  suddenly 
transformed  into  advantages ;  he  became  newly  conscious  of 
his  own  adroitness  in  the  presence  of  a  game  that  he  was 
called  on  to  play.  And  all  the  motives  which  might  have 
made  Tito  shrink  from  the  triple  deceit  that  came  before  him 
as  a  tempting  game,  had  been  slowly  strangled  in  him  by  the 
successive  falsities  of  his  life. 

Our  lives  make  a  moral  tradition  for  our  individual  selves, 
as  the  life  of  mankind  at  large  makes  a  moral  tradition  for  the 
race ;  and  to  have  once  acted  nobly  seems  a  reason  why  we 
should  always  be  noble.  But  Tito  was  feeling  the  effect  of  an 
opposite  tradition he  had  won  no  memories  of  self-conquest 


i  SUPPER  IN  THE  RUCELLAI  GARDENS.  867 

anet  pe^r^ect  faithfulness  from  which  he  could  have  a  sense  of 
falling. 

The  triple  colloquy  went  on  with  growing  spirit  till  it  was 
interrupted  by  a  call  from  the  table.  Probably  the  movement 
came  from  the  listeners  in  the  party,  who  were  afraid  lest  the 
talkers  should  tire  themselves.  At  all  events  it  was  agreed 
that  there  had  been  enough  of  gravity,  and  Rucellai  had  just 
ordered  new  flasks  of  Montepulciano. 

“  How  many  minstrels  are  there  among  us  ?  ”  he  said,  when 
there  had  been  a  general  rallying  round  the  table.  “  Melema, 
I  think  you  are  the  chief :  Matteo  will  give  you  the  lute.’’ 

‘‘Ah,  yes!”  said  Giannozzo  Pucci,  “lead  the  last  chorus 
from  Poliziano’s  ‘  Orfeo,’  that  you  have  found  such  an  excellent 
measure  for,  and  we  will  all  fall  in  :  — 

'  Ciascun  segna,  o  Bacco,  te : 

BaccOj,  Bacco,  evoe,  evoe !  ’ " 

The  servant  put  the  lute  into  Tito’s  hands,  and  then  said 
something  in  an  undertone  to  his  master.  A  little  subdued 
questioning  and  answering  went  on  between  them,  while  Tito 
touched  the  lute  in  a  preluding  way  to  the  strain  of  the  chorus, 
and  there  was  a  confusion  of  speech  and  musical  humming  all 
round  the  table.  Bernardo  Rucellai  had  said,  “Wait  a  mo 
ment,  Melema ;  ”  but  the  words  had  been  unheard  by  Tito,  who 
was  leaning  towards  Pucci,  and  singing  low  to  him  the  phrases 
of  the  Mrenad-chorus.  He  noticed  nothing  until  the  buzz  round 
the  table  suddenly  ceased,  and  the  notes  of  his  own  voice, 
with  its  soft  low-toned  triumph,  “  Evoe,  evoe  !  ”  fell  in  start¬ 
ling  isolation. 

It  was  a  strange  moment.  Baldassarre  had  moved  round 
the  table  till  he  was  opposite  Tito,  and  as  the  hum  ceased 
tiiere  might  be  seen  for  an  instant  Baldassarre’s  fierce  dark 
eyes  bent  on  Tito’s  bright  smiling  unconsciousness,  while  the 
low  notes  of  triumph  dropped  from  his  lips  into  the  silence. 

Tito  looked  up  with  a  slight  start,  and  his  lips  turned  pale, 
but  he  seemed  hardly  more  moved  than  Giannozzo  Pucci,  who 
had  looked  up  at  the  same  moment  —  or  even  than  several 
others  round  the  table ;  for  that  sallow  deep-lined  face  with 


368 


ROMOLA. 


the  hatred  in  its  eyes  seemed  a  terrible  apparition  across  the 
wax-lit  ease  and  gayety.  And  Tito  quickly  recovered  some 
self-command,  “  A  mad  old  man  —  he  looks  like  it  —  he  is 
mad  !  ”  was  the  instantaneous  thought  that  brought  some  cour¬ 
age  with  it ;  for  he  could  conjecture  no  inward  change  in  Baldas- 
sarre  since  they  had  met  before.  He  just  let  his  eyes  fall  and 
laid  the  lute  on  the  table  with  apparent  ease ;  but  his  fingers 
pinched  the  neck  of  the  lute  hard  while  he  governed  his  head 
and  his  glance  sufficiently  to  look  with  an  air  of  quiet  appeal 
towards  Bernardo  Rucellai,  who  said  at  once  — 

“  Good  man,  what  is  your  business  ?  What  is  the  important 
deelaration  that  you  have  to  make  ?  ” 

“  Messer  Bernardo  Rucellai,  I  wish  you  and  your  honorable 
friends  to  know  in  what  sort  of  company  you  are  sitting. 
There  is  a  traitor  among  you.” 

There  was  a  general  movement  of  alarm.  Every  one  pres« 
ent,  except  Tito,  thought  of  political  danger  and  not  of  private 
injury. 

Baldassarre  began  to  speak  as  if  he  were  thoroughly  assured 
of  what  he  had  to  say  ;  but,  in  spite  of  his  long  preparation 
for  this  moment,  there  was  the  tremor  of  overmastering  ex¬ 
citement  in  his  voice.  His  passion  shook  him.  He  went  on, 
but  he  did  not  say  what  he  had  meant  to  say.  As  he  fixed 
his  eyes  on  Tito  again  the  passionate  words  were  like  blows  — 
they  defied  premeditation. 

“There  is  a  man  among  you  who  is  a  scoundrel,  a  liar,  a 
robber.  I  was  a  father  to  him.  I  took  him  from  beggary 
when  he  was  a  child.  I  reared  him,  I.  cherished  him,  I 
taught  him,  I  made  him  a  scholar.  My  head  has  lain  hard 
tliat  his  might  have  a  pillow.  And  he  left  me  in  slavery ;  he 
sold  the  gems  that  were  mine,  and  when  I  came  again,  he 
denied  me.” 

The  last  words  had  been  uttered  with  almost  convulsed  agi¬ 
tation,  and  Baldassari’e  paused,  trembling.  All  glances  were 
turned  on  Tito,  who  was  now  looking  straight  at  Baldassarre. 
It  was  a  moment  of  desperation  that  annihilated  all  feeling  in 
him,  except  the  determination  to  risk  anything  for  the  chance 
of  escape.  And  he  gathered  confidence  from  the  agitation  by 


A  SUPPER  IN  THE  RUCELLAI  GARDENS.  369 


which  Baldassarre  was  evidently  shaken.  He  had  ceased  to 
pinch  the  neck  of  the  lute,  and  had  thrust  his  thumbs  into  his 
belt,  while  his  lips  had  begun  to  assume  a  slight  curl.  He  had 
never  yet  done  an  act  of  murderous  cruelty  even  to  the  small¬ 
est  animal  that  could  utter  a  cry,  but  at  that  moment  he  would 
have  been  capable  of  treading  the  breath  from  a  smiling  child 
for  the  sake  of  his  own  safety. 

‘^What  does  this  mean,  Melema  ?  ”  said  Bernardo  Rucellai, 
in  a  tone  of  cautious  surprise.  He,  as  well  as  the  rest  of  the 
company,  felt  relieved  that  the  tenor  of  the  accusation  was 
not  political. 

“  Messer  Bernardo,”  said  Tito,  “  I  believe  this  man  is  mad. 
I  did  not  recognize  him  the  first  time  he  encountered  me  in 
Florence,  but  I  know  now  that  he  is  the  servant  who  years 
ago  accompanied  me  and  my  adoptive  father  to  Greece,  and 
was  dismissed  on  account  of  misdemeanors.  Flis  name  is 
Jacopo  di  Nola.  Even  at  that  time  I  believe  his  mind  was 
unhinged,  for,  without  any  reason,  he  had  conceived  a  strange 
hatred  towards  me ;  and  now  I  am  convinced  that  he  is  labor¬ 
ing  under  a  mania  which  causes  him  to  mistake  his,  identity. 
He  has  already  attempted  my  life  since  he  has  been  in  Flor¬ 
ence  ;  and  I  am  in  constant  danger  from  him.  But  he  is  an 
object  of  pity  rather  than  of  indignation.  It  is  too  certain 
that  my  father  is  dead.  You  have  only  my  word  for  it;  but  I 
must  leave  it  to  your  judgment  how  far  it  is  probable  that  a 
man  of  intellect  and  learning  would  have  been  lurking  about 
in  dark  corners  for  the  last  month  with  the  purpose  of  assassi¬ 
nating  me;  or  how  far  it  is  probable  that,  if  this  man  were  my 
seconu  father,  I  could  have  any  motive  for  denying  him.  That 
story  about  my  being  rescued  from  beggary  is  the  vision  of  a 
diseased  brain.  But  it  will  be  a  satisfaction  to  me  at  least  if 
you  will  demand  from  him  proofs  of  his  identity,  lest  any 
malignant  person  should  choose  to  make  this  mad  impeach¬ 
ment  a  reproach  to  me.” 

Tito  had  felt  more  and  more  confidence  as  he  went  on  ;  the 
lie  was  not  so  difficult  when  it  was  once  begun ;  and  as  the 
words  fell  easily  from  his  lips,  they  gave  him  a  sense  of  power 
such  as  men  feel  when  they  have  begun  a  muscular  feat  sue- 


370  ROMOLA. 

cessfully.  In  this  way  he  acquired  boldness  enough  to  end  with 
a  challenge  for  proofs. 

Baldassarre,  while  he  had  been  walking  in  the  gardens  and 
afterwards  waiting  in  an  outer  room  of  the  pavilion  with  the 
servants,  had  been  making  anew  the  digest  of  the  evidence  he 
would  bring  to  prove  his  identity  and  Tito’s  baseness,  recall¬ 
ing  the  description  and  history  of  his  gems,  and  assuring  him¬ 
self  by  rapid  mental  glances  that  he  could  attest  his  learning 
and  his  travels.  It  might  be  partly  owing  to  this  nervous 
strain  that  the  new  shock  of  rage  he  felt  as  Tito’s  lie  fell  on 
his  ears  brought  a  strange  bodily  effect  with  it ;  a  cold  stream 
seemed  to  rush  over  him,  and  the  last  words  of  the  speech 
seemed  to  be  drowned  by  ringing  chimes.  Thought  gave  way 
to  a  dizzy  horror,  as  if  the  earth  were  slipping  away  from 
under  him.  Every  one  in  the  room  was  looking  at  him  as 
Tito  ended,  and  saw  that  the  eyes  which  had  had  such  fierce 
iib;ensity  only  a  few  minutes  before  had  now  a  vague  fear  in 
them.  He  clutched  the  back  of  a  seat,  and  was  silent. 

Hardly  any  evidence  could  have  been  more  in  favor  of 
Tito’s  assertion. 

“Surely  I  have  seen  this  man  before,  somewhere,”  said 
Tornabuoni. 

“Certainly  you  have,”  said  Tito,  readily,  in  a  low  tone. 
“He  is  the  escaped  prisoner  who  clutched  me  on  the  steps 
of  the  Duomo.  I  did  not  recognize  him  then ;  he  looks  now 
more  as  he  used  to  do,  except  that  he  has  a  more  unmistakable 
air  of  mad  imbecility.” 

“I  cast  no  doubt  on  your  word,  Melema,”  said  Bernardo 
Bucellai,  with  cautious  gravity,  “  but  you  are  right  to  desire 
some  positive  test  of  the  fact.”  Then  turning  to  Baldassarre, 
he  said,  “If  you  are  the  person  you  claim  to  be,  you  can 
doubtless  give  some  description  of  the  gems  which  were  your 
property.  I  myself  was  the  purchaser  of  more  than  one  gem 
from  Messer  Tito  —  the  chief  rings,  I  believe,  in  his  collection. 
One  of  them  is  a  fine  sard,  engraved  with  a  subject  from 
Homer.  If,  as  you  allege,  you  are  a  scholar,  and  the  rightful 
owner  of  that  ring,  you  can  doubtless  turn  to  the  noted  pas¬ 
sage  in  Homer  from  which  that  subject  is  taken.  Do  yoii 


A  SUPPER  IN  THE  RUCELLAI  GARDENS.  3Tl 


accept  this  test,  Melema  ?  or  have  you  anything  to  allege 
against  its  validity  ?  The  Jacopo  you  speak  of,  was  he  a 
scholar  ?  ’’ 

It  was  a  fearful  crisis  for  Tito.  If  he  said  Yes/’  his  quick 
mind  told  him  that  he  would  shake  the  credibility  of  his 
story:  if  he  said  “No,”  he  risked  everything  on  the  uncertain 
extent  of  Baldassarre’s  imbecility.  But  there  was  no  notice¬ 
able  pauae  before  he  said,  “No.  I  accept  the  test.” 

There  was  a  dead  silence  while  Rucellai  moved  towards  the 
recess  where  the  books  were,  and  came  baek  with  the  fine 
Florentine  Homer  in  his  hand.  Baldassarre,  when  he  was 
addressed,  had  turned  his  head  towards  the  speaker,  and 
Rucellai  believed  that  he  had  understood  him.  But  he  chose 
to  repeat  what  he  had  said,  that  there  might  be  no  mistake  as 
to  the  test. 

“The  ring  I  possess,”  he  said,  “is  a  fine  sard,  engraved  with 
a  subject  from  Florner.  There  was  no  other  at  all  resembling 
it  in  Messer  Tito’s  collection.  Will  you  turn  to  the  passage 
in  Homer  from  which  that  subject  is  taken  ?  Seat  yourself 
here,”  he  added,  laying  the  book  on  the  table,  and  pointing 
to  his  own  seat  while  he  stood  beside  it. 

Baldassarre  had  so  far  recovered  from  the  first  confused 
horror  produced  by  the  sensation  of  rushing  coldness  and 
chiming  din  in  the  ears  as  to  be  partly  aware  of  what  was 
said  to  him :  he  was  aware  that  something  was  being  demanded 
from  him  to  prove  his  identity,  but  he  formed  no  distinct  idea 
of  the  details.  The  sight  of  the  book  recalled  the  habitual 
longing  and  faint  hope  that  he  could  read  and  understand,  and 
he  moved  towards  the  chair  immediately. 

The  book  was  open  before,  him,  and  he  bent  his  head  a  little 
towards  it,  while  everybody  watched  him  eagerly.  He  turned 
no  leaf.  His  eyes  wandered  over  the  pages  that  lay  before 
him,  and  then  fixed  on  them  a  straining  gaze.  This  lasted  for 
two  or  three  minutes  in  dead  silence.  Then  he  lifted  his 
hands  to  each  side  of  his  head,  and  said,  in  a  low  tone  of 
despair,  “  Lost,  lost !  ” 

There  was  something  so  piteous  in  the  wandering  look  and 
the  low  cry,  that  while  they  confirmed  the  belief  in  his  mad- 


372 


ROMOLA. 


ness  they  raised  compassion.  Nay,  so  distinct  sometiinoat  is 
the  working  of  a  double  consciousness  within  us,  that  Tito 
himself,  while  he  triumphed  in  the  apparent  verification  of 
his  lie,  wished  that  he  had  never  made'  the  lie  necessary  to 
himself  —  wished  he  had  recognized  his  father  on  the  steps  — 
wished  he  had  gone  to  seek  him  —  wished  everything  had  been 
different.  But  he  had  borrowed  from  the  terrible  usurer 
Falsehood,  and  the  loan  had  mounted  and  mounted  with  the 
years,  till  he  belonged  to  the  usurer,  body  and  soul. 

The  compassion  excited  in  all  the  witnesses  was  not  with¬ 
out  its  danger  to  Tito ;  for  conjecture  is  constantly  guided  b^? 
feeling,  and  more  than  one  person  suddenly  conceived  that 
this  man  might  have  been  a  scholar  and  have  lost  his  facul¬ 
ties.  On  the  other  hand,  they  had  not  present  to  their  minds 
the  motives  which  could  have  led  Tito  to  the  denial  of  his 
benefactor,  and  having  no  ill-will  towards  him,  it  would  have 
been  difficult  to  them  to  believe  that  he  had  been  uttering  the 
basest  of  lies.  And  the  originally  common  type  of  Baldas- 
sarre’s  person,  coarsened  by  years  of  hardship,  told  as  a  con¬ 
firmation  of  Tito’s  lie.  If  Baldassarre,  to  begin  with,  could 
have  uttered  precisely  the  words  he  had  premeditated,  there 
might  have  been  something  in  the  form  of  his  accusation 
which  would  have  given  it  the  stamp  not  only  of  true  expe¬ 
rience  but  of  mental  refinement.  But  there  had  been  no  such 
testimony  in  his  impulsive  agitated  words :  and  there  seemed 
the  very  opposite  testimony  in  the  rugged  face  and  the  coarse 
hands  that  trembled  beside  it,  standing  out  in  strong  contrast 
in  the  midst  of  that  velvet-clad,  fair-handed  company. 

His  next  movement,  while  he  was  being  watched  in  silence, 
told  against  him  too.  He  took  his  hands  from  his  head,  and 
felt  for  something  under  his  tunic.  Every  one  guessed  what 
that  movement  meant  —  guessed  that  there  was  a  weapon  at 
his  side.  Glances  were  interchanged  ;  and  Bernardo  Bucellai 
said,  in  a  quiet  tone,  touching  Baldassarre’s  shoulder  — 

“  My  friend,  this  is  an  important  business  of  yours.  You 
shall  have  all  justice.  Follow  me  into  a  private  room.” 

Baldassarre  was  still  in  that  half-stunned  state  in  which  he 
was  susceptible  to  any  prompting,  in  the  same  way  as  an  in- 


A  SUPPER  IN  THE  RUCELLAI  GARDENS.  S73 

sect  that  forms  no  conception  of  what  the  prompting  leads  to. 
He  rose  from  his  seat,  and  followed  Rucellai  out  of  the  room. 

In  two  or  three  minutes  Rucellai  came  back  again,  and 
said  — 

‘‘  He  is  safe  under  lock  and  key.  Piero  Pitti,  you  are  one 
of  the  Magnificent  Eight,  what  do  you  think  of  our  sending 
Matteo  to  the  palace  for  a  couple  of  sbirri,  who  may  escort 
him  to  the  Stinche  ?  ^  If  there  is  any  danger  in  him,  as  I 
think  there  is,  he  will  be  safe  there ;  and  we  can  inquire  about 
him  to-morrow.” 

Pitti  assented,  and  the  order  was  given. 

‘^He  is  certainly  an  ill-looking  fellow,”  said  Tornabuoni. 
“And  you  say  he  has  attempted  your  life  already,  Melema  ?” 

And  the  talk  turned  on  the  various  forms  of  madness,  and 
the  fierceness  of  the  southern  blood.  If  the  seeds  of  conjec¬ 
ture  unfavorable  to  Tito  had  been  planted  in  the  mind  of  any 
one  present,  they  were  hardly  strong  enough  to  grow  without 
the  aid  of  much  daylight  and  ill-will.  The  common-looking, 
wild-eyed  old  man,  clad  in  serge,  might  have  won  belief  with¬ 
out  very  strong  evidence,  if  he  had  accused  a  man  who  was 
envied  and  disliked.  As  it  was,  the  only  congruous  and  prob¬ 
able  view  of  the  case  seemed  to  be  the  one  that  sent  the  un¬ 
pleasant  accuser  safely  out  of  sight,  and  left  the  pleasant 
serviceable  Tito  just  where  he  was  before. 

The  subject  gradually  floated  away,  and  gave  place  to  others, 
till  a  heavy  tramp,  and  something  like  the  struggling  of  a 
man  who  was  being  dragged  away,  were  heard  outside.  The 
sounds  soon  died  out,  and  the  interruption  seemed  to  make 
the  last  hour’s  conviviality  more  resolute  and  vigorous.  Every 
one  was  willing  to  forget  a  disagreeable  incident. 

Tito’s  heart  was  palpitating,  and  the  wine  tasted  no  better 
to  him  than  if  it  had  been  blood. 

To-night  he  had  paid  a  heavier  price  than  ever  to  make  him¬ 
self  safe.  He  did  not  like  the  price,  and  yet  it  was  inevitable 
that  he  should  be  glad  of  the  purchase. 

And  after  all  he  led  the  chorus.  He  was  in  a  state  of  ex¬ 
citement  in  which  oppressive  sensations,  and  the  wretched 
^  The  largest  prison  in  Florence. 


374 


ROMOLA. 


consciousness  of  something  hateful  but  irrevocable,  vere  min¬ 
gled  with  a  feeling  of  triumph  which  seemed  to  assert  it¬ 
self  as  the  feeling  that  would  subsist  and  be  master  of  the 
morrow. 

And  it  was  master.  For  on  the  morrow,  as  we  saw,  when 
he  was  about  to  start  on  his  mission  t  >  Rome,  he  had  the  air 
of  a  man  well  satisfied  with  the  world 


♦ 


CHAPTER  XL. 

AN  ARRESTING  VOICE. 

When  Romola  sat  down  on  the  stone  under  the  cypress,  all 
things  conspired  to  give  her  the  sense  of  freedom  and  soli¬ 
tude  :  her  escape  from  the  accustomed  walls  and  streets ;  the 
widening  distance  from  her  husband,  who  was  by  this  time 
riding  towards  Siena,  while  every  hour  would  take  her  farther 
on  the  opposite  way ;  the  morning  stillness ;  the  great  dip  of 
ground  on  the  roadside  making  a  gulf  between  her  and  the 
sombre  calm  of  the  mountains.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life 
she  felt  alone  in  the  presence  of  the  earth  and  sky,  with  no 
human  presence  interposing  and  making  a  law  for  her. 

Suddenly  u  voice  close  to  her  said  — 

You  are  Romola  de’  Bardi,  the  wife  of  Tito  Melema.” 

She  kneAV  the  voice  ;  it  had  vibrated  through  her  more  than 
fence  before ;  and  because  she  knew  it,  she  did  not  turn  round 
Dr  look  up.  She  sat  shaken  by  awe,  and  yet  inwardly  rebel¬ 
ling  against  the  awe.  It  was  one  of  those  black-skirted  monks 
who  was  daring  to  speak  to  her,  and  interfere  with  her  pri¬ 
vacy  :  that  was  all.  And  yet  she  was  shaken,  as  if  that  destiny 
which  men  thought  of  as  a  sceptred  deity  had  come  to  her, 
and  grasped  her  with  fingers  of  fiesh. 

‘‘You  are  fleeing  from  Florence  in  disguise.  I  have  a 
command  from  God  to  stop  you.  You  are  not  permitted  to 
flee.” 


AK  ARRESTING  VOICE. 


Romola^s  anger  at  the  intrusion  mounted  higher  at  these 
imperative  words.  She  would  not  turn  round  to  look  at  the 
speaker,  whose  examining  gaze  she  resented.  Sitting  quite 
motionless,  she  said  — 

“  What  right  have  you  to  speak  to  me,  or  to  hinder  me  ?  ” 

“  The  right  of  a  messenger.  You  have  put  on  a  religious 
garb,  and  you  have  no  religious  purpose.  You  have  sought 
the  garb  as  a  disguise.  But  you  were  not  suffered  to  pass  me 
without  being  discerned.  It  was  declared  to  me  who  you  were  : 
it  is  declared  to  me  that  you  are  seeking  to  escape  from  the 
lot  God  has  laid  upon  you.  You  wish  your  true  name  and 
your  true  place  in  life  to  be  hidden,  that  you  may  choose  for 
yourself  a  new  name  and  a  new  place,  and  have  no  rule  but 
your  own  will.  And  I  have  a  command  to  call  you  back.  My 
daughter,  you  must  return  to  your  place.” 

Romola’s  mind  rose  in  stronger  rebellion  with  every  sen¬ 
tence.  She  was  the  more  determined  not  to  show  any  sign  of 
submission,  because  the  consciousness  of  being  inwardly  shaken 
made  her  dread  lest  she  should  fall  into  irresolution.  She 
spoke  with  more  irritation  than  before. 

“I  will  not  return.  I  acknowledge  no  right  of  priests  and 
monks  to  interfere  with  my  actions.  You  have  no  power  over 
me.” 

“I  know — I  know  you  have  been  brought  up  in  scorn  of 
obedience.  But  it  is  not  the  poor  monk  who  claims  to  inter¬ 
fere  with  you .  it  is  the  truth  that  commands  you.  And  you 
cannot  escape  it.  Either  you  must  obey  it,  and  it  will  lead 
you  ;  or  you  must  disobey  it,  and  it  will  hang  on  you  with  the 
weight  of  a  chain  which  you  will  drag  forever.  But  you  will 
obey  it,  my  daughter.  Your  old  servant  will  return  to  you 
with  the  mules ;  my  companion  is  gone  to  fetch  him ;  and  you 
will  go  back  to  Florence.” 

She  started  up  with  anger  in  her  eyes,  and  faced  the  speaker. 
1 1  was  Fra  Girolamo ;  she  knew  that  well  enough  before.  She 
Vv'as  nearly  as  tall  as  he  was,  and  their  faces  were  almost  on  a 
level.  She  had  started  up;  with  defiant  words  ready  to  burst 
fi'om  her  lips,  but  they  fell  back  again  without  utterance. 
She  had  met  Fra  Girolamo’s  calm  glance,  and  the  impression 


876  KOMOLA. 

from  it  was  bo  new  to  her,  that  her  anger  sank  ashamed  as 
something  irrelevant. 

There  was  nothing  transcendent  in  Savonarola^s  face.  It 
was  not  beautiful.  It  was  strong-featured,  and  owed  all  its 
refinement  to  habits  of  mind  and  rigid  discipline  of  the  body. 
The  source  of  the  impression  his  glance  produced  on  Komola 
was  the  sense  it  conveyed  to  her  of  interest  in  her  and  care 
for  her  apart  from  any  personal  feeling.  It  was  the  first  time 
she  had  encountered  a  gaze  in  which  simple  human  fellowship 
expressed  itself  as  a  strongly  felt  bond.  Such  a  glance  is  half 
the  vocation  of  the  priest  or  spiritual  guide  of  men,  and  Komola 
felt  it  impossible  again  to  question  his  authority  to  speak  to 
her.  She  stood  silent,  looking  at  him.  And  he  spoke  again. 

“  You  assert  your  freedom  proudly,  my  daughter.  But  who 
is  so  base  as  the  debtor  that  thinks  himself  free  ?  ” 

There  was  a  sting  in  those  words,  and  Romola’s  countenance 
changed  as  if  a  subtle  pale  flash  had  gone  over  it. 

“  And  you  are  flying  from  your  debts :  the  debt  of  a  Floren¬ 
tine  woman ;  the  debt  of  a  wife.  You  are  turning  your  back 
on  the  lot  that  has  been  appointed  for  you  —  you  are  going  to 
choose  another.  But  can  man  or  woman  choose  duties  ?  No 
more  than  they  can  choose  their  birthplace  or  their  father  and 
mother.  My  daughter,  you  are  fleeing  from  the  presence  of 
God  into  the  wilderness.” 

As  the  anger  melted  from  Romola’s  mind,  it  had  given  place 
to  a  new  presentiment  of  the  strength  there  might  be  in  sub¬ 
mission,  if  this  man,  at  whom  she  was  beginning  to  look  with 
a  vague  reverence,  had  some  valid  law  to  show  her.  But  no 
—  it  was  impossible;  he  could  not  know  what  determined  her. 
Yet  she  could  not  again  simply  refuse  to  be  guided ;  she  was 
constrained  to  plead ;  and  in  her  new  need  to  be  reverent 
while  she  resisted,  the  title  which  she  had  never  given  him 
before  came  to  her  lips  without  forethought. 

‘‘My  father,  you  cannot  know  the  reasons  which  compel  me 
to  go.  None  can  know  them  but  myself.  None  can  judge 
for  me.  I  have  been  driven  by  great  sorrow.  I  am  resolved 
to  go.” 

“  I  know  enough,  my  daughter :  my  mind  has  been  so  far 


AN  AREESTING  VOICE. 


377 


illuminated  concerning  you,  that  I  know  enough.  You  are 
not  happy  in  your  married  life  ;  but  I  am  not  a  confessor,  and 
I  seek  to  know  nothing  that  should  be  reserved  for  the  seal  of 
confession,  I  have  a  divine  warrant  to  stop  you,  which  does 
not  depend  on  such  knowledge.  You  were  warned  by  a  mes¬ 
sage  from  heaven,  delivered  in  my  presence  —  you  were  warned 
before  marriage,  when  you  might  still  have  lawfully  chosen  to 
be  free  from  the  marriage-bond.  But  you  chose  the  bond ; 
and  in  wilfully  breaking  it  —  I  speak  to  you  as  a  pagan,  if  the 
holy  mystery  of  matrimony  is  not  sacred  to  you  —  you  are 
breaking  a  pledge.  Of  what  wrongs  will  you  complain,  my 
daughter,  when  you  yourself  are  committing  one  of  the  great¬ 
est  wrongs  a  woman  and  a  citizen  can  be  guilty  of — with¬ 
drawing  in  secrecy  and  disguise  from  a  pledge  which  you  have 
given  in  the  face  of  God  and  your  fellow-men  ?  Of  what 
vd'ongs  will  you  complain,  when  you  yourself  are  breaking  the 
simplest  law  that  lies  at  the  foundation  of  the  trust  which 
binds  man  to  man  —  faithfulness  to  the  spoken  word  ?  This, 
then,  is  the  wisdom  you  have  gained  by  scorning  the  mysteries 
of  the  Church  ?  —  not  to  see  the  bare  duty  of  integrity,  where 
the  Church  would  have  taught  you  to  see,  not  integrity  only, 
but  religion.” 

The  blood  had  rushed  to  Romola’s  face,  and  she  shrank  as 
if  she  had  been  stricken.  ‘‘  I  would  not  have  put  on  a  dis¬ 
guise,”  she  began ;  but  she  could  not  go  on,  —  she  was  too 
much  shaken  by  the  suggestion  in  the  Frate’s  words  of  a 
possible  affinity  between  her  own  conduct  and  Tito’s. 

“  And  to  break  that  pledge  you  fly  from  Florence :  Florence, 
where  there  are  the  only  men  and  women  in  the  world  to 
whom  you  owe  the  debt  of  a  fellow-citizen.” 

“  I  should  never  have  quitted  Florence,”  said  Eomola,  tremu¬ 
lously,  “  as  long  as  there  was  any  hope  of  my  fulfilling  a  duty 
to  my  father  there.” 

“  And  do  you  own  no  tie  but  that  of  a  child  to  her  father 
in  the  flesh  ?  Your  life  has  been  spent  in  blindness,  my 
daughter.  You  have  lived  with  those  who  sit  on  a  hill  aloof, 
and  look  down  on  the  life  of  their  fellow-men.  I  know  their 
vain  discourse.  It  is  of  what  has  been  in  the  times  which 


S78 


ROMOLA. 


tliey  fill  with  their  own  fancied  wisdom,  while  they  scorn 
God’s  work  in  the  present.  And  doubtless  you  were  taught 
how  there  were  pagan  women  who  felt  what  it  was  to  live  for 
the  Republic;  yet  you  have  never  felt  that  you,  a  Florentine 
woman,  should  live  for  Florence.  If  your  own  people  are 
wearing  a  yoke,  will  you  slip  from  under  it,  instead  of  strug¬ 
gling  with  them  to  lighten  it  ?  There  is  hunger  and  misery 
in  our  streets,  yet  you  say,  ‘  I  care  not ;  I  have  my  own  sor¬ 
rows  ;  I  will  go  away,  if  peradventure  I  can  ease  them.’  The 
servants  of  God  are  struggling  after  a  law  of  justice,  peace, 
and  charity,  that  the  hundred  thousand  citizens  among  whom 
you  were  born  may  be  governed  righteously ;  but  you  think 
no  more  of  this  than  if  you  were  a  bird,  that  may  spread  its 
wings  and  fly  whither  it  will  in  search  of  food  to  its  liking. 
And  yet  you  have  scorned  the  teaching  of  the  Church,  my 
daughter.  As  if  you,  a  wilful  wanderer,  following  your  own 
blind  choice,  were  not  below  the  humblest  Florentine  woman 
who  stretches  forth  her  hands  with  her  own  people,  and  craves 
a  blessing  for  them ;  and  feels  a  close  sisterhood  with  the 
neighbor  who  kneels  beside  her  and  is  not  of  her  own  blood ; 
and  thinks  of .  the  mighty  purpose  that  God  has  for  Florence  ; 
and  waits  and  endures  because  the  promised  work  is  great,  and 
she  feels  herself  little.” 

“  I  was  not  going  away  to  ease  and  self-indulgence,”  said 
Romola,  raising  her  head  again,  with  a  prompting  to  vindicate 
herself.  “  I  was  going  away  to  hardship.  I  expect  no  joy : 
it  is  gone  from  my  life.” 

‘^You  are  seeking  your  own  will,  my  daughter.  You  are 
seeking  some  good  other  than  the  law  you  are  bound  to  obey. 
But  how  will  you  find  good  ?  It  is  not  a  thing  of  choice :  it 
is  a  river  that  flows  from  the  foot  of  the  Invisible  Throne,  and 
flows  by  the  path  of  obedience.  I  say  again,  man  cannot 
choose  his  duties.  You  may  choose  to  forsake  your  duties, 
and  choose  not  to  have  the  sorrow  they  bring.  But  you  will 
go  forth ;  and  what  will  you  find,  my  daughter  ?  Sorrow 
without  duty  —  bitter  herbs,  and  no  bread  with  them.” 

“  But  if  you  knew,”  said  Romola,  clasping  her  hands  and 
pressing  them  tight,  as  she  looked  pleadingly  at  Fra  Girolamo ; 


AN  ARRESTING  VOICE.  379 

“  if  you  knew  what  it  was  to  me  —  how  impossible  it  seemed 
to  me  to  bear  it.” 

'■‘My  daughter,”  he  said,  pointing  to  the  cord  round  Romola’s 
neck,  “you  carry  something  within  your  mantle  ;  draw  it  forth, 
and  look  at  it.” 

Romola  gave  a  slight  start,  but  her  impulse  now  was  to  do 
just  what  Savonarola  told  her.  Her  self-doubt  was  grappled 
by  a  stronger  will  and  a  stronger  conviction  than  her  own. 
She  drew  forth  the  crucifix.  Still  pointing  towards  it,  he 
said  — 

“There,  my  daughter,  is  the  image  of  a  Supreme  Offering, 
made  by  Supreme  Love,  because  the  need  of  man  was  great.” 

He  paused,  and  she  held  the  crucifix  trembling  —  trembling 
under  a  sudden  impression  of  the  wide  distance  between  lier 
present  and  her  past  self.  What  a  length  of  road  she  had 
travelled  through  since  she  first  took  that  crucifix  from  the 
Frate’s  hands  !  Had  life  as  many  secrets  before  her  still  as 
it  had  for  her  then,  in  her  young  blindness  ?  It  was  a  thought 
that  helped  all  other  subduing  influences  ;  and  at  the  sound  of 
Fra  Girolamo’s  voice  again,  Fomola,  with  a  quick  involuntary 
movement,  pressed  the  crucifix  against  her  mantle  and  looked 
at  him  with  more  submission  than  before. 

“  Conform  your  life  to  that  image,  my  daughter ;  make  your 
sorrow  an  offering :  and  when  the  fire  of  Divine  charity  burns 
within  you,  and  you  behold  the  need  of  your  fellow-men  by 
the  light  of  that  flame,  you  will  not  call  your  offering  great. 
You  have  carried  yourself  proudly,  as  one  who  held  herself 
not  of  common  blood  or  of  common  thoughts ;  but  you  have 
been  as  one  unborn  to  the  true  life  of  man.  What !  you  say 
your  love  for  your  father  no  longer  tells  you  to  stay  in  Flor¬ 
ence  ?  Then,  since  that  tie  is  snapped,  you  are  without  a  law, 
without  religion :  you  are  no  better  than  a  beast  of  the  field 
when  she  is  robbed  of  her  young.  If  the  yearning  of  a  fleshly 
love  is  gone,  you  are  without  love,  without  obligation.  See, 
then,  my  daughter,  how  you  are  below  the  life  of  the  believer 
who  worships  that  image  of  the  Supreme  Offering,  and  feels 
the  glow  of  a  common  life  with  the  lost  multitude  for  whom 
that  offering  was  made,  and  beholds  the  history  of  the  world 


380 


ROMOLA. 


as  the  history  of  a  great  redemption  in  which  he  is  himself  a 
fellow-worker,  in  his  own  place  and  among  his  own  people  I 
If  you  held  that  faith,  my  beloved  daughter,  you  would  not  be 
a  wanderer  flying  from  suffering,  and  blindly  seeking  the  good 
of  a  freedom  which  is  lawlessness.  You  would  feel  that  Flor¬ 
ence  was  the  home  of  your  soul  as  well  as  your  birthplace,  be¬ 
cause  you  would  see  the  work  that  was  given  you  to  do  there. 
If  you  forsake  your  place,  who  will  fill  it  ?  You  ought  to  be 
in  your  place  now,  helping  in  the  great  work  by  which  God 
will  purify  Florence,  and  raise  it  to  be  the  guide  of  the  na¬ 
tions.  What !  the  earth  is  full  of  iniquity  —  full  of  groans 
—  the  light  is  still  struggling  with  a  mighty  darkness,  and 
you  say,  ‘  I  cannot  bear  my  bonds  ;  I  will  burst  them  asunder ; 
I  will  go  where  no  man  claims  me  ’  ?  My  daughter,  every 
bond  of  your  life  is  a  debt ;  the  right  lies  in  the  payment  of 
that  debt ;  it  can  lie  nowhere  else.  In  vain  will  you  wander 
over  the  earth ;  you  will  be  wandering  forever  away  from  the 
right.” 

Romola  was  inwardly  struggling  with  strong  forces :  that 
immense  personal  influence  of  Savonarola,  which  came  from 
the  energy  of  his  emotions  and  beliefs ;  and  her  consciousness, 
surmounting  all  prejudice,  that  his  words  implied  a  higher  law 
than  any  she  had  yet  obeyed.  But  the  resisting  thoughts  were 
not  yet  overborne. 

“  How,  then,  could  Dino  be  right  ?  He  broke  ties.  He 
forsook  his  place.” 

“  That  was  a  special  vocation.  He  was  constrained  to  de¬ 
part,  else  he  could  not  have  attained  the  higher  life.  It  would 
have  been  stifled  within  him.” 

“  And  I  too,”  said  Romola,  raising  her  hands  to  her  brow, 
and  speaking  in  a  tone  of  anguish,  as  if  she  were  being  dragged 
to  some  torture.  “Father,  you  may  be  wrong.” 

“  Ask  your  conscience,  my  daughter.  You  have  no  vocation 
such  as  your  brother  had.  You  are  a  wife.  You  seek  to  break 
your  ties  in  self-will  and  anger,  not  because  the  higher  life 
calls  upon  you  to  renounce  them.  The  higher  life  begins  for 
us,  my  daughter,  when  we  renounce  our  own  will  to  bow  be¬ 
fore  a  Divine  law.  That  seems  hard  to  you.  It  is  the  portal 


AN  ARRESTING  VOICE. 


381 


of  wisdom,  and  freedom,  and  blessedness.  And  the  symbol  ot 
it  hangs  before  you.  That  wisdom  is  the  religion  of  the  Cross. 
And  you  stand  aloof  from  it :  you  are  a  pagan ;  you  have  been 
taught  to  say,  ‘  I  am  as  the  wise  men  who  lived  before  the 
time  when  the  Jew  of  Nazareth  was  crucified.’  And  that  is 
your  wisdom  !  To  be  as  the  dead  whose  eyes  are  closed,  and 
whose  ear  is  deaf  to  the  work  of  God  that  has  been  since  their 
time.  What  has  your  dead  wisdom  done  for  you,  my  daugh' 
ter  ?  It  has  left  you  without  a  heart  for  the  neighbors  among 
whom  you  dwell,  without  care  for  the  great  work  by  which 
Florence  is  to  be  regenerated  and  the  world  made  holy  ;  it  has 
left  you  without  a  share  in  the  Divine  life  which  quenches  the 
sense  of  suffering  Self  in  the  ardors  of  an  ever-growing  love. 
And  now,  when  the  sword  has  pierced  your  soul,  you  say,  ‘  I 
will  go  away ;  I  cannot  bear  my  sorrow.’  And  you  think 
nothing  of  the  sorrow  and  the  wrong  that  are  within  the  walls 
of  the  city  where  you  dwell :  you  would  leave  your  place 
empty,  when  it  ought  to  be  filled  with  your  pity  and  your 
labor.  If  there  is  wickedness  in  the  streets,  your  steps  should 
shine  with  the  light  of  purity ;  if  there  is  a  cry  of  anguish, 
you,  my  daughter,  because  you  know  the  meaning  of  the  cry, 
should  be  there  to  still  it.  My  beloved  daughter,  sorrow  has 
come  to  teach  you  a  new  worship :  the  sign  of  it  hangs  before 
you.” 

Romola’s  mind  was  still  torn  by  conflict.  She  foresaw  that 
she  should  obey  Savonarola  and  go  back :  his  words  had  come 
to  her  as  if  they  were  an  interpretation  of  that  revulsion  from 
self-satisfied  ease,  and  of  that  new  fellowship  with  suffering, 
which  had  already  been  awakened  in  her.  His  arresting  voice 
had  brought  a  new  condition  into  her  life,  which  made  it  seem 
impossible  to  her  that  she  could  go  on  her  way  as  if  she  had 
not  heard  it ;  yet  she  shrank  as  one  who  sees  the  path  she 
must  take,  but  sees,  too,  that  the  hot  lava  lies  there.  And 
the  instinctive  shrinking  from  a  return  to  her  husband  brought 
doubts.  She  turned  away  her  eyes  from  Fra  Girolamo,  and 
stood  for  a  minute  or  two  with  her  hands  hanging  clasped 
before  her,  like  a  statue.  At  last  she  spoke,  as  if  the  word.s 
were  being  wrung  from  her,  still  looking  on  the  ground. 


382 


ROMOLA. 


“  My  husband  ...  he  is  not  ...  my  love  is  gone  i  ^ 

‘‘  My  daughter,  there  is  the  bond  of  a  higher  love.  Mar- 
riage  is  not  carnal  only,  made  for  selfish  delight.  See  what 
that  thought  leads  you  to  !  It  leads  you  to  wander  away  in 
a  false  garb  from  all  the  obligations  of  your  place  and  name. 
That  would  not  have  been,  if  you  had  learned  that  it  is  a 
sacramental  vow,  from  which  none  but  God  can  release  you. 
My  daughter,  your  life  is  not  as  a  grain  of  sand,  to  be  blown 
by  the  winds  ;  it  is  a  thing  of  flesh  and  blood,  that  dies  if  it 
be  sundered.  Your  husband  is  not  a  malefactor  ?  ” 

Eomola  started.  “  Heaven  forbid  I  No ;  I  accuse  him  of 
*hothing.” 

I  did  not  suppose  he  was  a  malefactor.  I  meant,  that  if 
he  were  a  malefactor,  your  place  would  be  in  the  prison  be¬ 
side  him.  My  daughter,  if  the  cross  comes  to  you  as  a  wife, 
you  must  carry  it  as  a  wife.  You  may  say,  ‘I  will  forsake 
my  husband,’  but  you  cannot  cease  to  be  a  wife.” 

‘‘Yet  if  —  oh,  how  could  I  bear  —  ”  Romola  had  involun¬ 
tarily  begun  to  say  something  which  she  sought  to  banish 
from  her  mind  again. 

“  Make  your  marriage-sorrows  an  offering  too,  my  daughter : 
an  offering  to  the  great  work  by  which  sin  and  sorrow  are 
being  made  to  cease.  The  end  is  sure,  and  is  already  begin¬ 
ning.  Here  in  Florence  it  is  beginning,  and  the  eyes  of  faith 
behold  it.  And  it  may  be  our  blessedness  to  die  for  it :  to  die 
daily  by  the  crucifixion  of  our  selfish  will  — to  die  at  last  by 
laying  our  bodies  on  the  altar.  My  daughter,  you  are  a  child 
of  Florence ;  fulfil  the  duties  of  that  great  inheritance.  Live 
for  Florence  —  for  your  own  people,  whom  God  is  preparing 
to  bless  the  earth.  Bear  the  anguish  and  the  smart.  The 
iron  is  sharp  —  I  know,  I  know  —  it  rends  the  tender  flesh. 
The  draught  is  bitterness  on  the  lips.  But  there  is  rapture 
in  the  cup  —  there  is  the  vision  which  makes  all  life  below 
it  dross  forever.  Come,  my  daughter,  come  back  to  your 
place !  ” 

While  Savonarola  spoke  with  growing  intensity,  his  arms 
tightly  folded  before  him  still,  as  they  had  been  from  the  first, 
but  his  face  alight  as  from  an  inward  flame,  Romola  felt  her- 


COMING  BACK. 


383 


self  surrounded  and  possessed  by  the  glow  of  his  passionate 
faith.  The  chill  doubts  all  melted  away ;  she  was  subdued 
by  the  sense  of  something  unspeakably  great  to  which  she 
was  being  called  by  a  strong  being  who  roused  a  new  strength 
within  herself.  In  a  voice  that  was  like  a  low,  prayerful  cry, 
She  said  — 

“  Father,  I  will  be  guided.  Teach  me  !  I  will  go  back.” 

Almost  unconsciously  she  sank  on  her  knees.  Savonarola 
stretched  out  his  hands  over  her  ;  but  feeling  would  no  longer 
pass  through  the  channel  of  speech,  and  he  was  silent. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

COMING  BACK. 

^^Rise,  my  daughter,”  said  Fra  Girolamo  at  last.  Your 
servant  is  waiting  not  far  off  with  the  mules.  It  is  time  that 
I  should  go  onward  to  Florence.” 

Romola  arose  from  her  knees.  That  silent  attitude  had 
been  a  sort  of  sacrament  to  her,  confirming  the  state  of  yearn¬ 
ing  passivity  on  which  she  had  newly  entered.  By  the  one 
act  of  renouncing  her  resolve  to  quit  her  husband,  her  will 
seemed  so  utterly  bruised  that  she  felt  the  need  of  direction 
even  in  small  things.  She  lifted  up  the  edge  of  her  cowl,  and 
saw  Maso  and  the  second  Dominican  standing  with  their 
backs  towards  her  on  the  edge  of  the  hill  about  ten  yards 
from  her ;  but  she  looked  at  Savonarola  again  without  speak¬ 
ing,  as  if  the  order  to  Maso  to  turn  back  must  come  from  him 
and  not  from  her. 

“  I  will  go  and  call  them,”  he  said,  answering  her  glance 
of  appeal ;  “  and  I  will  recommend  you,  my  daughter,  to  the 
Brother  who  is  with  me.  You  desire  to  put  yourself  under 
guidance,  and  to  learn  that  wisdom  which  has  been  hitherto 
as  foolishness  to  you.  A  chief  gate  of  that  wisdom  is  the 
sacrament  of  confession.  You  will  need  a  confessor,  my 


384 


ROMOLA. 


daughter,  and  I  desire  to  put  you  under  the  care  of  Fra  Sal 
vestro,  one  of  the  brethren  of  San  Marco,  in  whom  I  most 
confide.” 

“  I  would  rather  have  no  guidance  but  yours,  father,”  said 
Romola,  looking  anxious. 

“  My  daughter,  I  do  not  act  as  a  confessor.  The  vocation 
I  have  withdraws  me  from  offices  that  would  force  me  into 
frequent  contact  with  the  laity,  and  interfere  with  my  special 
duties.” 

“  Then  shall  1  not  be  'able  to  speak  to  you  in  private  ?  if  1 
waver,  if  —  ”  Romola  broke  off  from  rising  agitation.  She 
felt  a  sudden  alarm  lest  her  new  strength  in  renunciation 
should  vanish  if  the  immediate  personal  influence  of  Savona¬ 
rola  vanished. 

My  daughter,  if  your  soul  has  need  of  the  word  in  private 
from  my  lips,  you  will  let  me  know  it  through  Fra  Sal  vestro, 
and  I  will  see  you  in  the  sacristy  or  in  the  choir  of  San  Marco. 
And  I  will  not  cease  to  watch  over  you.  I  will  instruct  my 
brother  concerning  you,  that  he  may  guide  you  into  that  path 
of  labor  for  the  suffering  and  the  hungry  to  which  you  are 
called  as  a  daughter  of  Florence  in  these  times  of  hard  need. 
I  desire  to  behold  you  among  the  feebler  and  more  ignorant 
sisters  as  the  apple-tree  among  the  trees  of  the  forest,  so  that 
your  fairness  and  all  natural  gifts  may  be  but  as  a  lamp 
through  which  the  Divine  light  shines  the  more  purely.  I 
will  go  now  and  call  your  servant.” 

When  Maso  had  been  sent  a  little  way  in  advance.  Fra 
Salvestro  came  forward,  and  Savonarola  led  Romola  towards 
him.  She  had  beforehand  felt  an  inward  shrinking  from  a 
new  guide  who  was  a  total  stranger  to  her :  but  to  have  re¬ 
sisted  Savonarola’s  advice  would  have  been  to  assume  an 
attitude  of  independence  at  a  moment  when  all  her  strength 
must  be  drawn  from  the  renunciation  of  independence.  And 
the  whole  bent  of  her  mind  now  was  towards  doing  what  was 
painful  rather  than  what  was  easy.  She  bowed  reverently 
to  Fra  Salvestro  before  looking  directly  at  him  ;  but  when  she 
raised  her  head  and  saw  him  fully,  her  reluctance  became  a 
palpitating  doubt.  There  are  men  whose  presence  infuses 


COMING  BACK. 


385 


trust  and  reverence  ;  there  are  others  to  whom  we  have  need 
to  carry  our  trust  and  reverence  ready-made ;  and  that  differ, 
ence  flashed  on  Eomola  as  she  ceased  to  have  Savonarola 
before  her,  and  saw  in  his  stead  Fra  Salvestro  Maruffl.  It 
was  not  that  there  was  anything  manifestly  repulsive  in  Fra 
Salvestro’s  face  and  manner,  any  air  of  hypocrisy,  any  tinge 
of  coarseness  ;  his  face  was  handsomer  than  Fra  Girolamo’s, 
his  person  a  little  taller.  He  was  the  long-accepted  confessor 
of  many  among  the  chief  personages  in  Florence,  and  had 
therefore  had  large  experience  as  a  spiritual  director.  But  his 
face  had  the  vacillating  expression  of  a  mind  unable  to  con¬ 
centrate  itself  strongly  in  the  channel  of  one  great  emotion 
or  belief  —  an  expression  which  is  fatal  to  influence  over  an 
ardent  nature  like  Komola’s.  Such  an  expression  is  not  the 
stamp  of  insincerity ;  it  is  the  stamp  simply  of  a  shallow  soul, 
wnich  will  often  be  found  sincerely  striving  to  fill  a  high 
vocation,  sincerely  composing  its  countenance  to  the  utterance 
of  sublime  formulas,  but  finding  the  muscles  twitch  or  relax 
in  spite  of  belief,  as  prose  insists  on  coming  instead  of  poetry 
to  the  man  who  has  not  the  divine  frenzy.  Fra  Salvestro  had 
a  peculiar  liability  to  visions,  dependent  apparently  on  a  con¬ 
stitution  given  to  somnambulism.  Savonarola  believed  in 
the  supernatural  character  of  these  visions,  while  Fra  Salvestro 
himself  had  originally  resisted  such  an  interpretation  of  them, 
and  had  even  rebuked  Savonarola  for  his  prophetic  preaching : 
another  proof,  if  one  were  wanted,  that  the  relative  greatness 
of  men  is  not  to  be  gauged  by  their  tendency  to  disbelieve  the 
superstitions  of  their  age.  For  of  these  two  there  can  be  no 
question  which  was  the  great  man  and  which  the  small. 

The  difference  between  them  was  measured  very  accurately 
by  the  change  in  Eomola’s  feeling  as  Fra  Salvestro  began  to 
address  her  in  words  of  exhortation  and  encouragement. 
After  her  first  angry  resistance  of  Savonarola  had  passed 
away,  she  had  lost  all  remembrance  of  the  old  dread  lest  any 
influence  should  drag  her  within  the  circle  of  fanaticism  and 
sour  monkish  piety.  But  now  again,  the  chill  breath  of  that 
dread  stole  over  her.  It  could  have  no  decisive  effect  against 
the  impetus  her  mind  had  just  received ;  it  was  only  like  the 


V(M..  V. 


ROMOLA. 


closing  of  the  gray  clouds  orer  the  sunrise,  which  made  her 
returning  path  monotonous  and  sombre. 

And  perhaps  of  all  sombre  paths  that  on  which  we  go  back 
after  treading  it  with  a  strong  resolution  is  the  one  that  most 
severely  tests  the  fervor  of  renunciation.  As  they  re-entered 
the  city  gates  the  light  snow-flakes  fell  about  them ;  and  as 
the  gray  sister  walked  hastily  homeward  from  the  Piazza  di 
San  Marco,  and  trod  the  bridge  again,  and  turned  in  at  the 
large  door  in  the  Via  de’  Bardi,  her  footsteps  were  marked 
darkly  on  the  thin  carpet  of  snow,  and  her  cowl  fell  laden  and 
damp  about  her  face. 

She  went  up  to  her  room,  threw  off  her  serge,  destroyed  the 
parting  letters,  replaced  all  her  precious  trifles,  unbound  her 
hair,  and  put  on  her  usual  black  dress.  Instead  of  taking  a 
long  exciting  journey,  she  was  to  sit  down  in  her  usual  place. 
The  snow  fell  against  the  windows,  and  she  was  alone. 

She  felt  the  dreariness,  yet  her  courage  was  high,  like  that 
of  a  seeker  who  has  come  on  new  signs  of  gold.  She  was 
going  to  thread  life  by  a  fresh  clew.  She  had  thrown  all  the 
energy  of  her  will  into  renunciation.  The  empty  tabernacle 
remained  locked,  and  she  placed  Dino’s  crucifix  outside  it. 

Nothing  broke  the  outward  monotony  of  her  solitary  home, 
till  the  night  came  like  a  white  ghost  at  the  windows.  Yet 
it  was  the  most  memorable  Christmas-eve  in  her  life  to  Romol% 
this  of  1494. 


BOOK  TTI, 


CHAPTER  XLIL 

ROMOLA  IN  HER  PLACE. 

It  was  the  30th  of  October,  1496.  The  sky  that  morning 
was  clear  enough,  and  there  was  a  pleasant  autumnal 
breeze.  But  the  Florentines  just  then  thought  very  little 
about  the  land  breezes  :  they  were  thinking  of  the  gales  at 
sea,  which  seemed  to  be  uniting  with  all  other  powers  to  dis¬ 
prove  the  Frate’s  declaration  that  Heaven  took  special  care  of 
Florence. 

For  those  terrible  gales  had  driven  away  from  the  coast  of 
Leghorn  certain  ships  from  Marseilles,  freighted  with  soldiery 
and  corn ;  and  Florence  was  in  the  direst  need,  first  of  food, 
and  secondly  of  fighting  men.  Pale  Famine  was  in  her 
streets,  and  her  territory  was  threatened  on  all  its  borders. 

For  the  French  king,  that  new  Charlemagne,  who  had 
entered  Italy  in  anticipatory  triumph,  and  had  conquered 
Naples  without  the  least  trouble,  had  gone  away  again  fifteen 
months  ago,  and  was  even,  it  is  feared,  in  his  grief  for  the  loss 
of  a  new-born  son,  losing  the  languid  intention  of  coming  back 
again  to  redress  grievances  and  set  the  Church  in  order.  A 
league  had  been  formed  against  him  —  a  Holy  League,  with 
Pope  Borgia  at  its  head  —  to  “  drive  out  the  barbarians,”  who 
still  garrisoned  the  fortress  of  Naples.  That  had  a  patriotic 
sound ;  but,  looked  at  more  closely,  the  Holy  League  seemed 
very  much  like  an  agreement  among  certain  wolves  to  drive 
away  all  other  wolves,  and  then  to  see  which  among  them¬ 
selves  could  snatch  the  largest  share  of  the  prey.  And  there 
was  a  general  disposition  to  regard  Florence  not  as  a  fellow- 
wolf,  but  rather  as  a  desirable  carcass.  Florence,  therefore, 


388 


ROMOLA. 


of  all  the  chief  Italian  States,  had  alone  declined  to  join  the 
League,  adhering  still  to  the  French  alliance. 

She  had  declined  at  her  peril.  At  this  moment  Pisa,  still 
fighting' savagely  for  liberty,  was  being  encouraged  not  only 
by  strong  forces  from  Venice  and  Milan,  but  by  the  presence 
of  the  German  Emperor  Maximilian,  who  had  been  invited  by 
the  League,  and  was  joining  the  Pisans  with  such  troops  as  he 
had  in  the  attempt  to  get  possession  of  Leghorn,  while  the 
coast  was  invested  by  Venetian  and  Genoese  ships.  And  if 
Leghorn  should  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  enemy,  woe  to 
Florence  !  For  if  that  one  outlet  towards  the  sea  were  closed, 
hedged  in  as  she  was  on  the  land  by  the  bitter  ill-will  of  the 
Pope  and  the  jealousy  of  smaller  States,  how  could  succors 
reach  her  ? 

The  government  of  Florence  had  shown  a  great  heart  in  this 
urgent  need,  meeting  losses  and  defeats  with  vigorous  effort, 
raising  fresh  money,  raising  fresh  soldiers,  but  not  neglecting 
the  good  old  method  of  Italian  defence  —  conciliatory  embassies. 
And  while  the  scarcity  of  food  was  every  day  becoming 
greater,  they  had  resolved,  in  opposition  to  old  precedent,  not 
to  shut  out  the  starving  country  people,  and  the  mendicants 
driven  from  the  gates  of  other  cities,  who  came  flocking  to 
Florence  like  birds  from  a  land  of  snow. 

These  acts  of  a  government  in  which  the  disciples  of  Savon¬ 
arola  made  the  strongest  element  were  not  allowed  to  pass 
without  criticism.  The  disaffected  were  plentiful,  and  -they 
saw  clearly  that  the  government  took  the  worst  course  for 
the  public  welfare.  Florence  ought  to  join  the  League  and 
make  common  cause  with  the  other  great  Italian  States,  in¬ 
stead  of  drawing  down  their  hostility  by  a  futile  adherence  to 
a  foreign  ally.  Florence  ought  to  take  care  of  her  own  citi¬ 
zens,  instead  of  opening  her  gates  to  famine  and  pestilence  in 
the  shape  of  starving  contadini  and  alien  mendicants. 

Every  day  the  distress  became  sharper :  every  day  the 
murmurs  became  louder.  And,  to  crown  the  difficulties  of 
the  government,  for  a  month  and  more  —  in  obedience  to  a 
mandate  from  Rome  —  Fra  Girolamo  had  ceased  to  preach. 
But  on  the  arrival  of  the  terrible  news  that  the  ships  from 


ROMOLA  IN  HER  PLACE. 


S89 


Marseilles  had  been  driven  back,  and  that  no  corn  was  coming, 
the  need  for  the  voice  that  could  infuse  faith  and  patience 
into  the  people  became  too  imperative  to  be  resisted.  In  de¬ 
fiance  of  the  Papal  mandate  the  Signoria  requested  Savonarola 
to  preach.  And  two  days  ago  he  had  mounted  again  the 
pulpit  of  the  Duomo,  and  had  told  the  people  only  to  wait  and 
be  steadfast  and  the  Divine  help  would  certainly  come. 

It  was  a  bold  sermon :  he  consented  to  have  his  frock 
stripped  off  him  if,  when  Florence  persevered  in  fulfilling  the 
duties  of  piety  and  citizenship,  God  did  not  come  to  her 
rescue. 

Yet  at  present,  on  this  morning  of  the  30th,  there  were  no 
signs  of  rescue.  Perhaps  if  the  precious  Tabernacle  of  the 
Madonna  dell’  Impruneta  were  brought  into  Florence  and 
carried  in  devout  procession  to  the  Duomo,  that  Mother,  rich 
in  sorrows  and  therefore  in  mercy,  would  plead  for  the 
suffering  city  ?  For  a  century  and  a  half  there  were  records 
how  the  Florentines,  suffering  from  drought,  or  flood,  or 
famine,  or  pestilence,  or  the  threat  of  wars,  had  fetched  the 
potent  image  within  their  walls,  and  had  found  deliverance. 
And  grateful  honor  had  been  done  to  her  and  her  ancient 
church  of  L’lmprnneta;  the  high  house  of  Buondelmonti, 
patrons  of  the  church,  had  to  guard  her  hidden  image  with 
bare  sword;  wealth  had  been  poured  out  for  prayers  at  her 
shrine,  for  chantings,  and  chapels,  and  ever-burning  lights ; 
and  lands  had  been  added,  till  there  was  much  quarrelling  for 
the  privilege  of  serving  her.  The  Florentines  were  deeply 
convinced  of  her  graciousness  to  them,  so  that  the  sight  of  her 
tabernacle  within  their  walls  was  like  the  parting  of  the  cloud, 
and  the  proverb  ran,  that  the  Florentines  had  a  Madonna  who 
would  do  what  they  pleased. 

When  were  they  in  more  need  of  her  pleading  pity  than 
now  ?  And  already,  the  evening  before,  the  tabernacle  con¬ 
taining  the  miraculous  hidden  image  had  been  brought  with 
high  and  reverend  escort  from  li’Impruneta,  the  privileged 
spot  six  miles  beyond  the  gate  of  San  Piero  that  looks 
towards  Rome,  and  had  been  deposited  in  the  church  of  San 
Gaggio,  outside  the  gate,  whence  it  was  to  be  fetched  in 


890  ROMOLA. 

solemn  procession  by  all  the  fraternities,  trades,  and  autbori- 
ties  of  Florence. 

Rut  the  Pitying  Mother  had  not  yet  entered  within  the 
walls,  and  the  morning  arose  on  unchanged  misery  and  de¬ 
spondency.  Pestilence  was  hovering  in  the  track  of  famine. 
Not  only  the  hospitals  were  full,  but  the  courtyards  of  private 
houses  had  been  turned  into  refuges  and  infirmaries ;  and  still 
there  was  unsheltered  want.  And  early  this  morning,  as 
usual,  members  of  the  various  fraternities  who  made  it  part 
of  their  duty  to  bury  the  unfriended  dead,  were  bearing  away 
the  corpses  that  had  sunk  by  the  wayside.  As  usual,  sweet 
womanly  forms,  with  the  refined  air  and  carriage  of  the  well¬ 
born,  but  in  the  plainest  garb,  were  moving  about  the  streets  on 
their  daily  errands  of  tending  the  sick  and  relieving  the  hungry. 

One  of  these  forms  was  easily  distinguishable  as  Romola 
de’  Bardi.  Clad  in  the  simplest  garment  of  black  serge,  with 
a  plain  piece  of  black  drapery  drawn  over  her  head,  so  as  to 
hide  all  her  hair,  except  the  bands  of  gold  that  rippled  apart 
on  her  brow,  she  was  advancing  from  the  Ponte  Vecchio 
towards  the  Por’  Santa  Maria  —  the  street  in  a  direct  line 
with  the  bridge  —  when  she  found  her  way  obstructed  by  the 
pausing  of  a  bier,  which  was  being  carried  by  members  of  the 
company  of  San  Jacopo  del  Popolo,  in  search  for  the  unburied 
dead.  The  brethren  at  the  head  of  the  bier  were  stooping  to 
examine  something,  while  a  group  of  idle  workmen,  with  fea¬ 
tures  paled  and  sharpened  by  hunger,  were  clustering  around 
and  all  talking  at  once. 

He ’s  dead,  I  tell  you !  Messer  Domeneddio  has  loved 
him  well  enough  to  take  him.” 

“Ah,  and  it  would  be  well  for  us  all  if  we  could  have  our 
legs  stretched  out  and  go  with  our  heads  two  or  three  hracci 
foremost !  It ’s  ill  standing  upright  with  hunger  to  prop 
you.” 

“  Well,  well,  he ’s  an  old  fellow.  Death  has  got  a  poor 
bargain.  Life ’s  had  the  best  of  him.” 

“And  no  Florentine,  ten  to  one!  A  beggar  turned  out  ol 
Siena.  San  Giovanni  defend  us  1  They’ve  no  need  of  soldiers 
to  fight  us.  They  send  us  an  army  of  starving  men,” 


ROMOLA  IN  HER  PLACE. 


391 


«Ko,  no!  This  man  is  one  of  the  prisoners  turned  out  of 
the  Stinche.  I  know  by  the  gray  patch  wliere  the  prison 
badge  was.’’ 

‘‘Keep  quiet!  Lend  a  hand!  Don’t  you  see  the  brethren 
are  going  to  lift  him  on  the  bier  ?  ” 

“  It ’s  likely  he ’s  alive  enough  if  he  could  only  look  it. 
The  soul  may  be  inside  him  if  it  had  only  a  drop  of  vernaccia 
to  warm  it.” 

“  In  truth,  I  think  he  is  not  dead,”  said  one  of  the  brethren, 
when  they  had  lifted  him  on  the  bier.  “  He  has  perhaps  only 
sunk  down  for  want  of  food.” 

“  Let  me  try  to  give  him  some  wine,”  said  Romola,  coming 
forward.  She  loosened  the  small  flask  which  she  carried  at 
her  belt,  and,  leaning  towards  the  prostrate  body,  with  a  deft 
hand  she  applied  a  small  ivory  implement  between  the  teeth, 
and  poured  into  the  mouth  a  few  drops  of  wine.  The  stimulus 
acted :  the  wine  was  evidently  swallowed.  She  poured  more, 
till  the  head  was  moved  a  little  towards  her,  and  the  eyes  of 
the  old  man  opened  full  upon  her  with  the  vague  look  of 
returning  consciousness. 

Then  for  the  first  time  a  sense  of  complete  recognition  came 
over  Romola.  Those  wild  dark  eyes  opening  in  the  sallow 
deep-lined  face,  with  the  white  beard,  which  was  now  long 
again,  were  like  an  unmistakable  signature  to  a  remembered 
handwriting.  The  light  of  two  summers  had  not  made  that 
image  any  fainter  in  Romola’s  memory  :  the  image  of  the 
escaped  prisoner,  whom  she  had  seen  in  the  Duomo  the  day 
when  Tito  first  wore  the  armor  —  at  whose  grasp  Tito  was 
paled  with  terror  in  the  strange  sketch  she  had  seen  in  Piero’s 
studio.  A  wretched  tremor  and  palpitation  seized  her.  Now 
at  last,  perhaps,  she  was  going  to  know  some  secret  which 
might  be  more  bitter  than  all  that  had  gone  before.  She  felt 
an  impulse  to  dart  away  as  from  a  sight  of  horror ;  and  again, 
a  more  imperious  need  to  keep  close  by  the  side  of  this  old 
man  whom,  the  divination  of  keen  feeling  told  her,  her  hus¬ 
band  had  injured.  In  the  very  instant  of  this  conflict  she  still 
leaned  towards  him  and  kejT  her  right  hand  ready  to  adminis¬ 
ter  more  wine,  while  her  left  was  passed  under  his  neck.  Her 


392 


ROMOLA. 


hands  trembled,  but  their  habit  of  soothing  helpfulness  would 
have  served  to  guide  them  without  the  direction  of  her  thought. 

Baldassarre  was  looking  at  her  for  the  first  time.  The  close 
seclusion  in  which  Romola’s  trouble  had  kept  her  in  the  weeks 
preceding  her  flight  and  his  arrest,  had  denied  him  the  oppor¬ 
tunity  he  had  sought  of  seeing  the  Wife  who  lived  in  the  Via 
de’  Bardi ;  and  at  this  moment  the  descriptions  he  had  heard 
of  the  fair  golden-haired  woman  were  all  gone,  like  yesterday’s 
waves. 

“  Will  it  not  be  well  to  carry  him  to  the  steps  of  San 
Stefano?”  said  Eomola.  "We  shall  cease  then  to  stop  up 
the  street,  and  you  can  go  on  your  way  with  your  bier.” 

They  had  only  to  move  onward  for  about  thirty  yards  before 
reaching  the  steps  of  San  Stefano,  and  by  this  time  Baldassarre 
was  able  himself  to  make  some  efforts  towards  getting  off  the 
bier,  and  propping  himself  on  the  steps  against  the  church 
doorway.  The  charitable  brethren  passed  on,  but  the  group  of 
interested  spectators,  who  had  nothing  to  do  and  much  to  say, 
had  considerably  increased.  The  feeling  towards  the  old  man 
was  not  so  entirely  friendly  now  it  was  quite  certain  that  he 
was  alive,  but  the  respect  inspired  by  Eomola’s  presence  caused 
the  passing  remarks  to  be  made  in  a  rather  more  subdued  tone 
than  before. 

"  Ah,  they  gave  him  his  morsel  every  day  in  the  Stinche  — 
that’s  why  he  can’t  do  so  well  without  it.  You  and  I,  Cecco. 
know  better  what  it  is  to  go  to  bed  fasting.” 

"  Gnaffe  !  that ’s  why  the  Magnificent  Eight  have  turned 
out  some  of  the  prisoners,  that  they  may  shelter  honest  people 
instead.  But  if  every  thief  is  to  be  brought  to  life  with  good 
wine  and  wheaten  bread,  we  Ciompi  had  better  go  and  fill 
ourselves  in  Arno  while  the  water ’s  plenty.” 

Eomola  had  seated  herself  on  the  steps  by  Baldassarre,  and 
was  saying,  "  Can  you  eat  a  little  bread  now  ?  perhaps  by -and- 
by  you  will  be  able,  if  I  leave  it  with  you.  I  must  go  on,  be¬ 
cause  I  have  promised  to  be  at  the  hospital.  But  I  will  come 
back  if  you  will  wait  hero,  and  then  I  will  take  you  to  some 
shelter.  Do  you  understand  ?  Will  you  wait  ?  1  will  come 

back.” 


ROMOLA  IN  HER  PLACE. 


395 


He  looked  dreamily  at  her,  and  repeated  her  words,  “  come 
back.”  It  was  no  wonder  that  his  mind  was  enfeebled  by  his 
bodily  exhaustion,  but  she  hoped  that  he  apprehended  her 
meaning.  She  opened  her  basket,  which  was  filled  with  pieces 
of  soft  bread,  and  put  one  of  the  pieces  into  his  hand. 

‘‘Do  you  keep  your  bread  for  those  that  can’t  swallow, 
madonna  ?  ”  said  a  rough-looking  fellow,  in  a  red  night-cap, 
who  had  elbowed  his  way  into  the  inmost  circle  of  spectatorfi 
—  a  circle  that  was  pressing  rather  closely  on  Romola. 

“  If  anybody  is  n’t  hungry,”  said  another,  “  I  say,  let  him 
alone.  He ’s  better  off  than  people  who ’ve  got  craving  stom¬ 
achs  and  no  breakfast.” 

“Yes,  indeed ;  if  a  man’s  a  mind  to  die,  it’s  a  time  to  en¬ 
courage  him,  instead  of  making  him  come  back  to  life  against 
his  will.  Dead  men  want  no  trencher.” 

“  Oh,  you  don’t  understand  the  Frate’s  charity,”  said  a  young 
man  in  an  excellent  cloth  tunic,  whose  face  showed  no  signs  of 
want.  “  The  Frate  has  been  preaching  to  the  birds,  like  Saint 
Anthony,  and  he ’s  been  telling  the  hawks  they  were  made  to 
feed  the  sparrows,  as  every  good  Florentine  citizen  was  made 
to  feed  six  starving  beggarmen  from  Arezzo  or  Bologna. 
Madonna,  there,  is  a  pious  Piagnone :  she ’s  not  going  to 
throw  away  her  good  bread  on  honest  citizens  who ’ve  got  all 
the  Frate’s  prophecies  to  swallow.” 

“Come,  madonna,”  said  he  of  the  red  cap,  “the  old  thief 
does  n’t  eat  the  bread,  you  see  :  you ’d  better  try  us.  We  fast 
so  much,  we  ’re  half  saints  already.” 

The  circle  had  narrowed  till  the  coarse  men  —  most  of  them 
gaunt  from  privation  —  had  left  hardly  any  margin  round 
Romola.  She  had  been  taking  from  her  basket  a  small  horn- 
cup,  into  which  she  put  the  piece  of  bread  and  just  moistened 
it  with  wine  ;  and  hitherto  she  had  not  appeared  to  heed  them. 
But  now  she  rose  to  her  feet,  and  looked  round  at  them.  In¬ 
stinctively  the  men  who  were  nearest  to  her  pushed  backward 
a  little,  as  if  their  rude  nearness  were  the  fault  of  those  be¬ 
hind.  Romola  held  out  the  basket  of  bread  to  the  man  in  the 
night-cap,  looking  at  him  without  any  reproach  in  her  glanoc, 
as  she  said  — 


594 


ROMOLA. 


“Hunger  »:S  hard  to  bear,  I  know,  and  you  have  the  power 
to  take  this  bread  if  you  will.  It  was  saved  for  sick  women 
and  children.  You  are  strong  men ;  but  if  you  do  not  choose 
to  suffer  because  you  are  strong,  you  have  the  power  to  take 
everything  from  the  weak.  You  can  take  the  bread  from  this 
oasket ;  but  I  shall  watch  by  this  old  man ;  I  shall  resist  your 
taking  the  bread  from  him.” 

For  a  few  moments  there  was  perfect  silence,  while  Romola 
looked  at  the  faces  before  her,  and  held  out  the  basket  of 
bread.  Her  own  pale  face  had  the  slightly  pinched  look  and 
the  deepening  of  the  eye-socket  which  indicate  unusual  fasting 
in  the  habitually  temperate,  and  the  large  direct  gaze  of  her 
hazel  eyes  was  all  the  more  impressive. 

The  man  in  the  night-cap  looked  rather  silly,  and  backed, 
thrusting  his  elbow  into  his  neighbor’s  ribs  with  an  air  of 
moral  rebuke.  The  backing  was  general,  every  one  wishing 
to  imply  that  he  had  been  pushed  forward  against  his  will ; 
and  the  young  man  in  the  fine  cloth  tunic  had  disappeared. 

But  at  this  moment  the  armed  servitors  of  the  Signoria,  who 
had  begun  to  patrol  the  line  of  streets  through  which  the  pro¬ 
cession  was  to  pass,  came  up  to  disperse  the  group  which  was 
obstructing  the  narrow  street.  The  man  addressed  as  Cecco 
retreated  from  a  threatening  mace  up  the  church  steps,  and 
said  to  Bomola,  in  a  respectful  tone  — 

“  Madonna,  if  you  want  to  go  on  your  errands,  I  ’ll  take  care 
of  the  old  man.” 

Cecco  was  a  wild-looking  figure :  a  very  ragged  tunic,  made 
shaggy  and  variegated  by  cloth-dust  and  clinging  fragments  of 
wcol,  gave  relief  to  a  pair  of  bare  bony  arras  and  a  long  sinewy 
uerdc ;  his  square  jaw  shaded  by  a  bristly  black  beard,  his 
bridgeless  nose  and  low  forehead,  made  his  face  look  as  if  it 
had  been  crushed  down  for  purposes  of  packing,  and  a  narrow 
piece  of  red  rag  tied  over  his  ears  seemed  to  assist  in  the  com¬ 
pression.  Romola  looked  at  him  with  some  hesitation. 

“Don’t  distrust  me,  madonna,”  said  Cecco,  who  understood 
her  look  perfectly ;  “  I  am  not  so  pretty  as  you,  but  I ’ve  got 
an  old  mother  who  eats  my  porridge  for  me.  What!  there’s 
a  heart  inside  me,  and  T ’ve  bought  a  candle  for  the  most  Holy 


THE  UNSEEN  MADONNA. 


S% 


Virgin  before  now.  Besides,  see  there,  the  old  fellow  is  eating 
his  sop.  He ’s  hale  enough :  he  ’ll  be  on  his  legs  as  well  as  the 
best  of  us  by-and-by.” 

“  Thank  you  for  offering  to  take  care  of  him,  friend,”  said 
Komola,  rather  penitent  for  her  doubting  glance.  Then  lean¬ 
ing  to  Baldassarre,  she  said,  “Pray  wait  for  me  till  I  come 
again.” 

He  assented  with  a  slight  movement  of  the  head  and  hand, 
and  Eomola  went  on  her  way  towards  the  hospital  of  San 
Matteo,  in  the  Piazza  di  San  Marco. 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

THE  UNSEEN  MADONNA. 

In  returning  from  the  hospital,  more  than  an  hour  later, 
Romola  took  a  different  road,  making  a  wider  circuit  towards 
the  river,  which  she  reached  at  some  distance  from  the  Ponte 
Vecchio.  She  turned  her  steps  towards  that  bridge,  intending 
to  hasten  to  San  Stefano  in  search  of  Baldassarre.  She 
dreaded  to  know  more  about  him,  yet  she  felt  as  if,  in  forsak¬ 
ing  him,  she  would  be  forsaking  some  near  claim  upon  her. 

But  when  she  approached  the  meeting  of  the  roads  where 
the  For’  Santa  Maria  would  be  on  her  right  hand  and  the 
Ponte  Vecchio  on  her  left,  she  found  herself  involved  in  a 
crowd  who  suddenly  fell  on  their  knees  ;  and  she  immediately 
knelt  with  them.  The  Cross  was  passing  —  the  Great  Cross 
of  the  Diiomo  —  which  headed  the  procession.  Romola  was 
later  than  she  had  expected  to  bo,  and  now  she  must  wait  till 
the  procession  had  passed.  As  she  rose  from  her  knees,  when 
the  Cross  had  disappeared,  the  return  to  a  standing  posture, 
with  nothing  to  do  but  gaze,  made  her  more  conscious  of  her 
fatigue  than  she  had  been  while  she  had  been  walking  and 
occupied.  A  shopkeeper  by  her  side  said,  — 


396 


ROMOLA. 


“  Madonna  Romola,  you  will  be  weary  of  standing :  Gian 
Fantoni  will  be  glad  to  give  you  a  seat  in  his  house.  Here  is 
his  door  close  at  hand.  Let  me  open  it  for  you.  What !  he 
loves  God  and  the  Frate  as  we  do.  His  house  is  yours.” 

Romola  was  accustomed  now  to  be  addressed  in  this  frater¬ 
nal  way  by  ordinary  citizens,  whose  faces  were  familiar  to  her 
from  her  having  seen  them  constantly  in  the  Duomo.  The 
idea  of  home  had  come  to  be  identified  for  her  less  with  the 
house  in  the  Via  de’  Bardi,  where  she  sat  in  frequent  loneli¬ 
ness,  than  with  the  towered  circuit  of  Florence,  where  there 
was  hardly  a  turn  of  the  streets  at  which  she  was  not  greeted 
with  looks  of  appeal  or  of  friendliness.  She  was  glad  enough 
to  pass  through  the  open  door  on  her  right  hand  and  be  led  by 
the  fraternal  hose-vendor  to  an  up-stairs  window,  where  a  stout 
woman  with  three  children,  all  in  the  plain  garb  of  Piagnoni, 
made  a  place  for  her  with  much  reverence  above  the  bright 
hanging  draperies.  From  this  corner  station  she  could  see, 
not  only  the  procession  pouring  in  solemn  slowness  between 
the  lines  of  houses  on  the  Ponte  Vecchio,  but  also  the  river 
and  the  Lung’  Arno  on  towards  the  bridge  of  the  Santa 
Trinita. 

In  sadness  and  in  stillness  came  the  slow  procession.  Not 
even  a  wailing  chant  broke  the  silent  appeal  for  mercy :  there 
was  only  the  tramp  of  footsteps,  and  the  faint  sweep  of  woollen 
garments.  They  were  young  footsteps  that  were  passing  when 
Romola  first  looked  from  the  window  —  a  long  train  of  the 
Florentine  youth,  bearing  high  in  the  midst  of  them  the  white 
image  of  the  youthful  Jesus,  with  a  golden  glory  above  his 
head,  standing  by  the  tall  cross  where  the  thorns  and  the  nails 
lay  ready. 

After  that  train  of  fresh  beardless  faces  came  the  mysterious- 
looking  Companies  of  Discipline,  bound  by  secret  rules  to  self¬ 
chastisement,  and  devout  praise,  and  special  acts  of  piety ;  all 
wearing  a  garb  which  concealed  the  whole  head  and  face  ex¬ 
cept  the  eyes.  Every  one  knew  that  these  mysterious  forms 
were  Florentine  citizens  of  various  ranks,  who  might  be  seen 
at  ordinary  times  going  about  the  business  of  the  shop,  the 
counting-house,  or  the  State;  but  no  member  now  was  dis- 


THE  UNSEEN  MADONNA. 


397 


cernible  as  son,  husband,  or  father.  They  had  dropped  their 
personality,  and  walked  as  symbols  of  a  common  vow.  Each 
company  had  its  color  and  its  badge,  but  the  garb  of  all  was  a 
complete  shroud,  and  left  no  expression  but  that  of  fellow¬ 
ship. 

In  comparison  with  them,  the  multitude  of  monks  seemed 
to  be  strongly  distinguished  individuals,  in  spite  of  the  com¬ 
mon  tonsure  and  the  common  frock.  First  came  a  white  stream 
of  reformed  Benedictines ;  and  then  a  much  longer  stream  of 
the  Frati  Minori,  or  Franciscans,  in  that  age  all  clad  in  gray, 
with  the  knotted  cord  round  their  waists,  and  some  of  them 
with  the  zoccoli,  or  wooden  sandals,  below  their  bare  feet ;  — - 
perhaps  the  most  numerous  order  in  Florence,  owning  many 
zealous  members  who  loved  mankind  and  hated  the  Domini¬ 
cans.  And  after  the  gray  came  the  black  of  the  Augustinians 
of  San  Spirito,  with  more  cultured  human  faces  above  it  — 
men  who  had  inherited  the  library  of  Boccaccio,  and  had  made 
the  most  learned  company  in  Florence  when  learning  was 
rarer ;  then  the  white  over  dark  of  the  Carmelites ;  and  then 
again  the  unmixed  black  of  the  Servites,  that  famous  Floren¬ 
tine  order  founded  by  seven  merchants  who  forsook  their  gains 
to  adore  the  Divine  Mother. 

And  now  the  hearts  of  all  on-lookers  began  to  beat  a  little 
faster,  either  with  hatred  or  with  love,  for  there  was  a  stream 
of  black  and  white  coming  over  the  bridge  —  of  black  mantles 
over  white  scapularies ;  and  every  one  knew  that  the  Domini¬ 
cans  were  coming.  Those  of  Fiesole  passed  first.  One  black 
mantle  parted  by  white  after  another,  one  tonsured  head  after 
another,  and  still  expectation  was  suspended.  They  were  very 
coarse  mantles,  all  of  them,  and  many  were  threadbare,  if  not 
ragged  ;  for  the  Prior  of  San  Marco  had  reduced  the  fraterni¬ 
ties  under  his  rule  to  the  strictest  poverty  and  discipline.  But 
in  the  long  line  of  black  and  white  there  was  at  last  singled 
out  a  mantle  only  a  little  more  worn  than  the  rest,  with  a  ton¬ 
sured  head  above  it  which  might  not  have  appeared  supremely 
remarkable  to  a  stranger  who  had  not  seen  it  on  bronze  medals, 
with  the  sword  of  God  as  its  obverse  j  or  surrounded  by  an 
armed  guard  on  the  way  to  the  Duomo  j  or  transfigured  by 


398 


ROMOLA. 


the  inward  flame  of  the  orator  as  it  looked  round  on  a  rapt 
multitude. 

As  the  approach  of  Savonarola  was  discerned,  none  dared 
conspicuously  to  break  the  stillness  by  a  sound  which  would 
rise  above  the  solemn  tramp  of  footsteps  and  the  faint  sweep 
of  garments ;  nevertheless  his  ear,  as  well  as  other  ears,  caught 
a  mingled  sound  of  slow  hissing  that  longed  to  be  curses,  and 
murmurs  that  longed  to  be  blessings.  Perhaps  it  was  the  sense 
that  the  hissing  predominated  which  made  two  or  three  of  his 
disciples  in  the  foreground  of  the  crowd,  at  the  meeting  of  the 
roads,  fall  on  their  knees  as  if  something  divine  were  passing. 
The  movement  of  silent  homage  spread  :  it  went  along  the 
sides  of  the  streets  like  a  subtle  shock,  leaving  some  unmoved, 
while  it  made  the  most  bend  the  knee  and  bow  the  head.  But 
the  hatred,  too,  gathered  a  more  intense  expression ;  and  as 
Savonarola  passed  up  the  PoP  Santa  Maria,  Romola  could  see 
that  some  one  at  an  upper  window  spat  upon  him. 

Monks  again  —  Frati  Umiliati,  or  Humbled  Brethren,  from 
Ognissanti,  with  a  glorious  tradition  of  being  the  earliest 
workers  in  the  wool-trade;  and  again  more  monks — Vallom- 
brosan  and  other  varieties  of  Benedictines,  reminding  the  in¬ 
structed  eye  by  niceties  of  form  and  color  that  in  ages  of 
abuse,  long  ago,  reformers  had  arisen  who  had  marked  a 
change  of  spirit  by  a  change  of  garb ;  till  at  last  the  shaven 
crowns  were  at  an  end,  and  there  came  the  train  of  untonsured 
secular  priests. 

Then  followed  the  twenty-one  incorporated  Arts  of  Florence 
in  long  array,  with  their  banners  floating  above  them  in  proud 
declaration  that  the  bearers  had  their  distinct  functions,  from 
the  bakers  of  bread  to  the  judges  and  notaries.  And  then  all 
the  secondary  officers  of  State,  beginning  with  the  less  and 
going  on  to  the  greater,  till  the  line  of  secularities  was  broken 
by  the  Canons  of  the  Duomo,  carrying  a  sacred  relic  —  the 
very  head,  enclosed  in  silver,  of  San  Zenobio,  immortal  bishop 
of  Florence,  whose  virtues  were  held  to  have  saved  the  city 
perhaps  a  thousand  years  before. 

Here  was  the  nucleus  of  the  procession.  Behind  the  relio 
came  the  archbishop  in  gorgeous  cope,  with  canopy  held  above 


THE  UNSEEN  MADONNA. 


399 


iiim ;  and  after  him  the  mysterious  hidden  Image  —  hidden 
first  by  rich  curtains  of  brocade  enclosing  an  outer  painted 
tabernacle,  but  within  this,  by  the  more  ancient  tabernacle 
which  had  never  been  opened  in  the  memory  of  living  men, 
or  the  fathers  of  living  men.  In  that  inner  shrine  was  the 
image  of  the  Pitying  Mother,  found  ages  ago  in  the  soil  of 
L’Impruneta,  uttering  a  cry  as  the  spade  struck  it.  Hitherto 
the  unseen  Image  had  hardly  ever  been  carried  to  the  Duomo 
without  having  rich  gifts  borne  before  it.  There  was  no  recit¬ 
ing  the  list  of  precious  offerings  made  by  emulous  men  and 
communities,  especially  of  veils  and  curtains  and  mantles. 
But  the  richest  of  all  these,  it  was  said,  had  been  given  by 
a  poor  abbess  and  her  nuns,  who,  having  no  money  to  buy 
materials,  wove  a  mantle  of  gold  brocade  with  their  prayers, 
embroidered  it  and  adorned  it  with  their  prayers,  and,  finally, 
saw  their  work  presented  to  the  Blessed  Virgin  in  the  great 
piazza  by  two  beautiful  youths  who  spread  out  white  wings 
and  vanished  in  the  blue. 

But  to-day  there  were  no  gifts  carried  before  the  tabernacle  : 
no  donations  were  to  be  given  to-day  except  to  the  poor.  That 
had  been  the  advice  of  Fra  Girolamo,  whose  preaching  never 
insisted  on  gifts  to  the  invisible  powers,  but  only  on  help  to 
visible  need ;  and  altars  had  been  raised  at  various  points  in 
front  of  the  churches,  on  which  the  oblations  for  the  poor 
were  deposited.  Not  even  a  torch  was  carried.  Surely  the 
hidden  Mother  cared  less  for  torches  and  brocade  than  for  the 
wail  of  the  hungry  people.  Florence  was  in  extremity:  she 
liad  done  her  utmost,  and  could  only  wait  for  something  divine 
that  was  not  in  her  own  power. 

The  Frate  in  the  torn  mantle  had  said  that  help  would  cer¬ 
tainly  come,  and  many  of  the  faint-hearted  were  clinging  more 
to  their  faith  in  the  Frate’s  word,  than  to  their  faith  in  the 
virtues  of  the  unseen  Image.  But  there  were  not  a  few  of 
the  fierce-hearted  who  thought  with  secret  rejoicing  that  the 
Prate’s  word  might  be  proved  false. 

Slowly  the  tabernacle  moved  forward,  and  knees  were  bent. 
There  was  profound  stillness  ;  for  the  train  of  priests  and 
chaplains  from  L’Impruneta  stirred  no  passion  in  the  on- 


400 


ROMOLA. 


lookers.  The  procession  was  about  to  close  with  the  Priors 
and  the  Gonfaloidere  :  the  long  train  of  companies  and  sym¬ 
bols,  which  have  their  silent  music  and  stir  the  mind  as  a 
chorus  stirs  it,  was  passing  out  of  sight,  and  now  a  faint 
yearning  hope  was  all  that  struggled  with  the  accustomed 
despondency. 

Romola,  whose  heart  had  been  swelling,  half  with  forebod¬ 
ing,  half  with  that  enthusiasm  of  fellowship  which  the  life  of 
the  last  two  years  had  made  as  habitual  to  her  as  the  con¬ 
sciousness  of  costume  to  a  vain  and  idle  woman,  gave  a  deep 
sigh,  as  at  the  end  of  some  long  mental  tension,  and  remained 
on  her  knees  for  very  languor ;  when  suddenly  there  flashed 
from  between  the  houses  on  to  the  distant  bridge  something 
bright-colored.  In  the  instant,  Romola  started  up  and  stretched 
out  her  arms,  leaning  from  the  window,  while  the  black 
drapery  fell  from  her  head,  and  the  golden  gleam  of  her  hair 
and  the  flush  in  her  face  seemed  the  effect  of  one  illumination. 
A  shout  arose  in  the  same  instant ;  the  last  troops  of  the  pro¬ 
cession  paused,  and  all  faces  were  turned  towards  the  distant 
bridge. 

But  the  bridge  was  passed  now :  the  horseman  was  pressing 
at  full  gallop  along  by  the  Arno  ;  the  sides  of  his  bay  horse,  just 
streaked  with  foam,  looked  all  white  from  swiftness;  his  cap 
was  flying  loose  by  his  red  becchetto,  and  he  waved  an  olive 
branch  in  his  hand.  It  was  a  messenger  —  a  messenger  of 
good  tidings !  The  blessed  olive  branch  spoke  afar  off.  But 
the  impatient  people  could  not  wait.  They  rushed  to  meet 
the  on-comer,  and  seized  his  horse’s  rein,  pushing  and  tramp- 
ling. 

And  now  Romola  could  see  that  the  horseman  was  her  hus¬ 
band,  who  had  been  sent  to  Pisa  a  few  days  before  on  a  private 
embassy.  The  recognition  brought  no  new  flash  of  joy  into 
her  eyes.  She  had  checked  her  first  impulsive  attitude  of 
expectation :  but  her  governing  anxiety  was  still  to  know 
what  news  of  relief  had  come  for  Florence. 

“Good  news!”  “Best  news!”  “'News  to  be  paid  with 
hose  (novelle  da  calze)  !  ”  were  the  vague  answers  with  which 
Tito  met  the  importunities  of  the  crowd,  until  he  had  sue- 


THE  UNSEEN  MADONNA. 


401 


ceeded  in  pushing  on  his  horse  to  the  spot  at  the  meeting  of 
the  ways  where  the  Gonfaloniere  and  the  Priors  were  awaiting 
him.  There  he  paused,  and,  bowing  low,  said  — 

“Magnificent  Signori!  I  have  to  deliver  to  you  the  joyful 
news  that  the  galleys  from  France,  laden  with  corn  and  men, 
have  arrived  safely  in  the  port  of  Leghorn,  by  favor  of  a 
strong  wind,  which  kept  the  enemy’s  fleet  at  a  distance.” 

The  words  had  no  sooner  left  Tito’s  lips  than  they  seemed 
fco  vibrate  up  the  streets.  A  great  shout  rang  through  the  air, 
and  rushed  along  the  river ;  and  then  another,  and  another ; 
and  the  shouts  were  heard  spreading  along  the  line  of  the 
procession  towards  the  Duomo;  and  then  there  were  fainter 
answering  shouts,  like  the  intermediate  plash  of  distant  waves 
in  a  great  lake  whose  waters  obey  one  impulse. 

For  some  minutes  there  was  no  attempt  to  speak  further: 
the  Signoria  themselves  lifted  up  their  caps,  and  stood  bare¬ 
headed  in  the  presence  of  a  rescue  which  had  come  from  out¬ 
side  the  limit  of  their  own  power  —  from  that  region  of  trust 
and  resignation  which  has  been  in  all  ages  called  divine. 

At  last,  as  the  signal  was  given  to  move  forward,  Tito  said, 
with  a  smile  — 

“  I  ought  to  say,  that  any  hose  to  be  bestowed  by  the  Mag¬ 
nificent  Signoria  in  reward  of  these  tidings  are  due,  not  to  me, 
but  to  another  man  who  had  ridden  hard  to  bring  them,  and 
would  have  been  here  in  my  place  if  his  horse  had  not  broken 
down  just  before  he  reached  Signa.  Meo  di  Sasso  will  doubt, 
less  be  here  in  an  hour  or  two,  and  may  all  the  more  justly 
claim  the  glory  of  the  messenger,  because  he  has  had  the  chief 
labor  and  has  lost  the  chief  delight.” 

It  was  a  graceful  way  of  putting  a  necessary  statement,  and 
after  a  word  of  reply  from  the  Proposto,  or  spokesman  of  the 
Signoria,  this  dignified  extremity  of  the  procession  passed  on, 
and  Tito  turned  his  horse’s  head  to  follow  in  its  train,  while 
the  great  bell  of  the  Palazzo  Vecchio  was  already  beginning  to 
swing,  and  give  a  louder  voice  to  the  people’s  joy. 

In  that  moment,  when  Tito’s  attention  had  ceased  to  be  im¬ 
peratively  directed,  it  might  have  been  expected  that  he  would 
look  round  and  recognize  Romola;  but  he  was  apparently  en- 


VOL.V. 


402 


ROMOLA. 


gaged  with  his  cap,  which,  now  the  eager  people  were  leading 
his  horse,  he  was  able  to  seize  and  place  on  his  head,  while 
his  right  hand  was  still  encumbered  by  the  olive  branch. 
He  had  a  becoming  air  of  lassitude  after  his  exertions ;  and 
Romola,  instead  of  making  any  effort  to  be  recognized  by  him, 
threw  her  black  drapery  over  her  head  again,  and  remained 
perfectly  quiet.  Yet  she  felt  almost  sure  that  Tito  had  seen 
her ;  he  had  the  power  of  seeing  everything  without  seeming 
to  see  it. 


ROMOLA- 


H 

i 


CONTENTS, 


Book  III.  —  Continued. 

CHAPTBa  FAQB 

XLIV.  The  Visible  Madonna . & 

XLV.  At  the  Barber’s  Shop .  9 

XLVI.  By  A  Street  Lamp . 19 

XLVII  Check . 28 

XLVIIl,  Counter-Check . 31 

XLIX.  The  Pyramid  op  Vanities . .  .  38 

L.  Tessa  Abroad  and  at  Home . 44 

LI.  Monna  Brigida’s  Conversion . 56 

LII.  A  Prophetess . 61 

LIII.  On  San  Miniato . 69 

LIV.  The  Evening  and  the  Morning . 74 

LV.  Waiting  .  78 

LVL  The  other  Wife . 82 

LVII.  Why  Tito  was  safe . 95 

LVIII.  A  Final  Understanding . 10] 

LIX.  Pleading  . . 108 

LX.  The  Scaffold . 118 

LXI.  Drifting  Away . 125 

LXII.  The  Benediction . .  .  130 

LXIII.  Ripening  Schemes . 135 

LXIV.  The  Prophet  in  his  Cell  . .  .  147 

LXV,  Thb  Trial  by  Fire . 156 

LXVT.  A  Masque  op  the  Furies . 165 

LXVIT.  Waiting  by  the  River  ..........  16!' 

LXVin.  Romola’s  Waking .  '  .  .  17/ 


COINTENTS. 


TV 

Chapter  Pag* 

LXIX.  Homeward . .  .  187 

LXX.  Meeting  again . 190 

LXXI  The  Confession.  .  ......  196 

LXXIL  The  Last  Silence  .....  203 

Epilogue . 207 


Silas  Marnbr  .  , 


213 


R  O  M  O  L  A. 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

THE  VISIBLE  MADONNA. 

The  crowd  had  no  sooner  passed  onward  than  Eomola 
descended  to  the  street,  and  hastened  to  the  steps  of  San 
Stefano.  Cecco  had  been  attracted  with  the  rest  towards  the 
piazza,  and  she  found  Baldassarre  standing  alone  against  the 
church  door,  with  the  horn-cup  in  his  hand,  waiting  for  her. 
There  was  a  striking  change  in  him :  the  blank,  dreamy  glance 
-of  a  half-returned  consciousness  had  given  place  to  a  fierce¬ 
ness  which,  as  she  advanced  and  spoke  to  him,  flashed  upon 
her  as  if  she  had  been  its  object.  It  was  the  glance  of  caged 
fury  that  sees  its  prey  passing  safe  beyond  the  bars. 

Romola  started  as  the  glance  was  turned  on  her,  but  her 
immediate  thought  was  that  he  had  seen  Tito.  And  as  she 
felt  the  look  of  hatred  grating  on  her,  something  like  a  hope 
arose  that  this  man  might  be  the  criminal,  and  that  her  hus¬ 
band  might  not  have  been  guilty  towards  him.  If  she  could 
learn  that  now,  by  bringing  Tito  face  to  face  with  him,  and 
have  her  mind  set  at  rest ! 

“If  you  will  come  with  me,”  she  said,  “I  can  give  you 
shelter  and  food  until  you  are  quite  rested  and  strong.  Will 
you  come  ?  ” 

“Yes,”  said  Baldassarre,  “I  shall  be  glad  to  get  my  strength. 
I  want  to  get  my  strength,”  he  repeated,  as  if  he  were  mutter¬ 
ing  to  himself,  rather  than  speaking  to  her. 

“Come!”  she  said,  inviting  him  to  walk  by  her  side,  and 
taking  the  way  by  the  Arno  towards  the  Ponte  Rubaconte  as 
the  more  private  road. 


4 


ROMOLA. 


"I  think  you  are  not  a  Florentine,”  she  said,  presently,  as 
they  turned  on  to  the  bridge. 

He  looked  round  at  her  without  speaking.  His  suspicious 
caution  was  more  strongly  upon  him  than  usual,  just  now  that 
the  fog  of  confusion  and  oblivion  was  made  denser  by  bodily 
feebleness.  But  she  was  looking  at  him  too,  and  there  was 
something  in  her  gentle  eyes  which  at  last  compelled  him  to 
answer  her.  But  he  answered  cautiously  — 

‘‘No,  I  am  no  Florentine ;  I  am  a  lonely  man.” 

She  observed  his  reluctance  to  speak  to  her,  and  dared  not 
question  him  further,  lest  he  should  desire  to  quit  her.  As 
she  glanced  at  him  from  time  to  time,  her  mind  was  busy  with 
thoughts  which  quenched  the  faint  hope  that  there  was  noth¬ 
ing  painful  to  be  revealed  about  her  husband.  If  this  old. 
man  had  been  in  the  wrong,  where  was  the  cause  for  dread 
and  secrecy  ? 

They  walked  on  in  silence  till  they  reached  the  entrance 
into  the  Via  de’  Bardi,  and  Romola  noticed  that  he  turned 
and  looked  at  her  with  a  sudden  movement  as  if  some 
shock  had  passed  through  him.  A  few  moments  after,  she 
paused  at  the  half-open  door  of  the  court  and  turned  towards 
him. 

“  Ah !  ”  he  said,  not  waiting  for  her  to  speak,  “  you  are  his 
wife.” 

“  Whose  wife  ?  ”  said  Romola. 

It  would  have  been  impossible  for  Baldassarre  to  recall  any 
name  at  that  moment.  The  very  force  with  which  the  image 
of  Tito  pressed  upon  him  seemed  to  expel  any  verbal  sign. 
He  made  no  answer,  but  looked  at  her  with  strange  fixedness. 

She  opened  the  door  wide  and  showed  the  court  covered 
with  straw,  on  which  lay  four  or  five  sick  people,  while  some 
little  children  crawled  or  sat  on  it  at  their  ease  —  tiny  pale 
creatures,  biting  straws  and  gurgling. 

“If  you  will  come  in,”  said  Romola,  tremulously,  “I  will 
find  you  a  comfortable  place,  and  bring  you  some  more  food.” 

“No,  I  will  not  come  in,”  said  Baldassarre.  But  he  stood 
fitill,  arrested  by  the  burden  of  impressions  under  which  his 
mind  was  too  confused  to  choose  a  course. 


THE  VISIBLE  MADONNA. 


6 


“Can  I  do  nothing  for  you  ?  ”  said  Eomola.  “Let  me  give 
you  some  money  that  you  may  buy  food.  It  will  be  more 
plentiful  soon.” 

She  had  put  her  hand  into  her  scarsella  as  she  spoke,  and 
held  out  her  palm  with  several  grossi  in  it.  She  purposely 
offered  him  more  than  she  would  have  given  to  any  other  man 
in  the  same  circumstances.  He  looked  at  the  coins  a  little 
while,  and  then  said  — 

“Yes,  I  will  take  them.” 

She  poured  the  coins  into  his  palm,  and  he  grasped  them 
tightly. 

“Tell  me,”  said  Eomola,  almost  beseechingly.  “What  shall 
you  —  ” 

But  Baldassarre  had  turned  away  from  her,  and  was  walk¬ 
ing  again  towards  the  bridge.  Passing  from  it,  straight  on 
up  the  Via  del  Fosso,  he  came  upon  the  shop  of  Niccolo 
Caparra,  and  turned  towards  it  without  a  pause,  as  if  it  had 
been  the  very  object  of  his  search.  Niccolb  was  at  that  mo¬ 
ment  in  procession  with  the  armorers  of  Florence,  and  there 
was  only  one  apprentice  in  the  shop.  But  there  were  all  sorts 
of  weapons  in  abundance  hanging  there,  and  Baldassarre’s 
eyes  discerned  what  he  was  more  hungry  for  than  for  bread. 
Niccolo  himself  would  probably  have  refused  to  sell  anything 
that  might  serve  as  a  weapon  to  this  man  with  signs  of  the 
prison  on  him ;  but  the  apprentice,  less  observant  and  scrupu¬ 
lous,  took  three  grossi  for  a  sharp  hunting-knife  without  any 
hesitation.  It  was  a  conveniently  small  weapon,  which  Bal¬ 
dassarre  could  easily  thrust  within  the  breast  of  his  tunic,  and 
he  walked  on,  feeling  stronger.  That  sharp  edge  might  give 
deadliness  to  the  thrust  of  an  aged  arm  :  at  least  it  was  a  com¬ 
panion,  it  was  a  power  in  league  with  him,  even  if  it  failed. 
It  would  break  against  armor,  but  was  the  armor  sure  to  be 
always  there  ?  In  those  long  months  while  vengeance  had 
lain  in  prison,  baseness  had  perhaps  become  forgetful  and 
secure.  The  knife  had  been  bought  with  the  traitor’s  own 
money.  That  was  just.  Before  he  took  the  money,  he  had 
felt  what  he  should  do  with  it  —  buy  a  weapon.  Yes,  and  if 
possible,  food  too  j  food  to  nourish  the  arm  that  would  grasp 


6 


ROMOLA. 


the  weapon,  food  to  nourish  the  body  which  was  the  temple  of 
vengeance.  When  he  had  had  enough  bread,  he  should  be  able 
to  think  and  act  —  to  think  first  how  he  could  hide  himself, 
lest  Tito  should  have  him  dragged  away  again. 

With  that  idea  of  hiding  in  his  mind,  Baldassarre  turned  up 
the  narrowest  streets,  bought  himself  some  meat  and  bread, 
and  sat  down  under  the  first  loggia  to  eat.  The  bells  that 
swung  out  louder  and  louder  peals  of  joy,  laying  hold  of  him 
and  making  him  vibrate  along  with  all  the  air,  seemed  to  him 
simply  part  of  that  strong  world  which  was  against  him. 

Romola  had  watched  Baldassarre  until  he  had  disappeared 
round  the  turning  into  the  Piazza  de’  Mozzi,  half  feeling  that 
his  departure  was  a  relief,  half  reproaching  herself  for  not 
seeking  with  more  decision  to  know  the  truth  about  him,  for 
not  assuring  herself  whether  there  were  any  guiltless  misery 
in  his  lot  which  she  was  not  helpless  to  relieve.  Yet  what 
could  she  have  done  if  the  truth  had  proved  to  be  the  burden 
of  some  painful  secret  about  her  husband,  in  addition  to  the 
anxieties  that  already  weighed  upon  her  ?  Surely  a  wife  was 
permitted  to  desire  ignorance  of  a  husband’s  wrong-doing, 
since  she  alone  must  not  protest  and  warn  men  against  him, 
But  that  thought  stirred  too  many  intricate  fibres  of  feeling  to 
be  pursued  now  in  her  weariness.  It  was  a  time  to  rejoice, 
since  help  had  come  to  Florence  ;  and  she  turned  into  the  court 
to  tel]  the  good  news  to  her  patients  on  their  straw  beds. 

She  closed  the  door  after  her,  lest  the  bells  should  drown 
her  voice,  and  then  throwing  the  black  drapery  from  her  head, 
that  the  women  might  see  her  better,  she  stood  in  the  midst 
and  told  them  that  corn  was  coming,  and  that  the  bells  were 
ringing  for  gladness  at  the  news.  They  all  sat  up  to  listen, 
while  the  children  trotted  or  crawled  towards  her,  and  pulled 
her  black  skirts,  as  if  they  were  impatient  at  being  all  that 
long  way  off  her  face.  She  yielded  to  them,  weary  as  she 
was,  and  sat  down  on  the  straw,  while  the  little  pale  things 
peeped  into  her  basket  and  pulled  her  hair  down,  and  the 
feeble  voices  around  her  said,  The  Holy  Virgin  be  praised  !  ” 
‘‘  It  was  the  procession !  ”  “  The  Mother  of  God  has  had  pity 

on  us  !  ” 


Tuk  Visible  Madonna 


THE  VISIBLE  MADONNA. 


i 


At  last  Romola  rose  from  the  heap  of  straw,  too  tired  to  try 
and  smile  any  longer,  saying  as  she  turned  up  the  stone 
steps  — 

“  I  will  come  by-and-by,  to  bring  you  your  dinner.” 

“  Bless  you.  Madonna  !  bless  you  !  ”  said  the  faint  chorus,  in 
much  the  same  tone  as  that  in  which  they  had  a  few  minutes 
before  praised  and  thanked  the  unseen  Madonna. 

Rornola  cared  a  great  deal  for  that  music.  She  had  no  in¬ 
nate  taste  for  tending  the  sick  and  clothing  the  ragged,  like 
some  women  to  whom  the  details  of  such  work  are  welcome 
in  themselves,  simply  as  an  occupation.  Her  early  training 
had  kept  her  aloof  from  such  womanly  labors  ;  and  if  she  had 
not  brought  to  them  the  inspiration  of  her  deepest  feelings, 
they  would  have  been  irksome  to  her.  But  they  had  come  to 
be  the  one  unshaken  resting-place  of  her  mind,  the  one  narrow 
pathway  on  which  the  light  fell  clear.  If  the  gulf  between 
herself  and  Tito  which  only  gathered  a  more  perceptible  wide¬ 
ness  from  her  attempts  to  bridge  it  by  submission,  brought  a 
doubt  whether,  after,  all,  the  bond  to  which  she  had  labored  to 
be  true  might  not  itself  be  false  —  if  she  came  away  from  her 
confessor.  Fra  Salvestro,  or  from  some  contact  with  the  disci¬ 
ples  of  Savonarola  among  whom  she  worshipped,  with  a  sicken¬ 
ing  sense  that  these  people  were  miserably  narrow,  and  with 
an  almost  impetuous  reaction  towards  her  old  contempt  for 
their  superstition  —  she  found  herself  recovering  a  firm  foot¬ 
ing  in  her  works  of  womanly  sympathy.  Whatever  else  made 
her  doubt,  the  help  she  gave  to  her  fellow-citizens  made  her 
sure  that  Fra  Girolamo  had  been  right  to  call  her  back.  Ac¬ 
cording  to  his  unforgotten  wmrds,  her  place  had  not  been 
empty :  it  had  been  filled  with  her  love  and  her  labor.  Flor¬ 
ence  had  had  need  of  her,  and  the  more  her  own  sorrow  pressed 
upon  her,  the  more  gladness  she  felt  in  the  memories,  stretch¬ 
ing  through  the  two  long  years,  of  hours  and  moments  in 
which  she  had  lightened  the  burden  of  life  to  others.  All 
that  ardor  of  her  nature  which  could  no  longer  spend  itself  in 
the  woman’s  tenderness  for  father  and  husband,  had  trans¬ 
formed  itself  into  an  enthusiasm  of  sympathy  with  the  general 
life.  She  had  ceased  to  think  that  her  own  lot  could  be  happy 


8 


ROMOLA. 


—  had  ceased  to  think  of  happiness  at  all :  the  one  end  of  her 
life  seemed  to  her  to  be  the  diminishing  of  sorrow. 

Her  enthusiasm  was  continually  stirred  to  fresh  vigor  by 
the  influence  of  Savonarola.  In  spite  of  the  wearisome  visions 
and  allegories  from  which  she  recoiled  in  disgust  when  they 
came  as  stale  repetitions  from  other  lips  than  his,  her  strong 
afiinity  for  his  passionate  sympathy  and  the  splendor  of  his 
aims  had  lost  none  of  its  power.  His  burning  indignatiou 
against  the  abuses  and  oppression  that  made  the  daily  story 
of  the  Church  and  of  States  had  kindled  the  ready  fire  in  her 
too.  His  special  care  for  liberty  and  purity  of  government  in 
Florence,  with  his  constant  reference  of  this  immediate  object 
to  the  wider  end  of  a  universal  regeneration,  had  created  in 
her  a  new  consciousness  of  the  great  drama  of  human  exist¬ 
ence  in  which  her  life  was  a  part ;  and  through  her  daily  help¬ 
ful  contact  with  the  less  fortunate  of  her  fellow-citizens  this 
new  consciousness  became  something  stronger  than  a  vague 
sentiment ;  it  grew  into  a  more  and  more  definite  motive  of 
self-denying  practice.  She  thought  little  about  dogmas,  and 
shrank  from  reflecting  closely  on  the  Frate’s  prophecies  of  the 
immediate  '^courge  and  closely  following  i^egeneration.  She 
had  submitted  her  mind  to  his  and  had  entered  into  communion 
with  the  Church,  because  in  this  way  she  had  found  an  im¬ 
mediate  satisfaction  for  moral  needs  which  all  the  previous 
culture  and  experience  of  her  life  had  left  hungering.  Fra 
Girolamo’s  voice  had  waked  in  her  mind  a  reason  for  living, 
apart  from  personal  enjoyment  and  personal  affection  ;  but  it 
was  a  reason  that  seemed  to  need  feeding  with  greater  forces 
than  she  possessed  within  herself,  and  her  submissive  use  of  all 
offices  of  the  Church  was  simply  a  watching  and  waiting  if  by 
any  means  fresh  strength  might  come.  The  pressing  problem 
for  Romola  just  then  was  not  to  settle  questions  of  contro¬ 
versy,  but  to  keep  alive  that  flame  of  unselfish  emotion  by 
which  a  life  of  sadness  might  still  be  a  life  of  active  love. 

Her  trust  in  Savonarola’s  nature  as  greater  than  her  own 
made  a  large  part  of  the  strength  she  had  found.  And  the 
trust  was  not  to  be  lightly  shaken.  It  is  not  force  of  intellect 
which  causes  ready  repulsion  from  the  aberration  and  eccentrh 


AT  THE  BARBER’S  SHOP. 


9 


cities  of  greatness,  any  more  than  it  is  force  of  vision  that 
causes  the  eye  to  explore  the  warts  on  a  face  bright  with 
human  expression ;  it  is  simply  the  negation  of  high  sensibili¬ 
ties.  Eomola  was  so  deeply  moved  by  the  grand  energies  of 
Savonarola’s  nature,  that  she  found  herself  listening  patiently 
to  all  dogmas  and  prophecies,  when  they  came  in  the  vehicle 
of  his  ardent  faith  and  believing  utterance.^ 

No  soul  is  desolate  as  long  as  there  is  a  human  being  for 
whom  it  can  feel  trust  and  reverence.  Romola’s  trust  in  Sa¬ 
vonarola  was  something  like  a  rope  suspended  securely  by  her 
path,  making  her  step  elastic  while  she  grasped  it ;  if  it  were 
suddenly  removed,  no  firmness  of  the  ground  she  trod  could 
save  her  from  staggering,  or  perhaps  from  falling. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

AT  THE  barber’s  SHOP. 

After  that  welcome  appearance  as  the  messenger  with  the 
olive-branch,  which  was  an  unpromised  favor  of  fortune,  TiC^ 
had  other  commissions  to  fulfil  of  a  more  premeditated  charac¬ 
ter.  He  paused  at  the  Palazzo  Yecchio,  and  awaited  there  th<^ 
return  of  the  Ten,  who  managed  external  and  war  affairs,  that 
he  might  duly  deliver  to  them  the  results  of  his  private  mis¬ 
sion  to  Pisa,  intended  as  a  preliminary  to  an  avowed  embassy 
of  which  Bernardo  Rucellai  was  to  be  the  head,  with  the  ob¬ 
ject  of  coming,  if  possible,  to  a  pacific  understanding  with  the 
Emperor  Maximilian  and  the  League. 

1  He  himself  had  had  occasion  enough  to  note  the  efficacy  of  that  Tchicie. 
“  If,”  he  says  in  the  Compendium  Revelatjonum,  “  you  speak  of  such  as  have 
not  heard  these  things  from  me,  I  admit  that  they  who  disbelieve  are  more 
than  they  who  believe,  because  it  is  one  thing  to  hear  him  who  inwardly  feels 
these  things,  and  another  to  hear  him  who  feels  them  not ;  .  .  .  and,  there¬ 
fore,  it  is  well  said  by  St.  Jerome,  ‘  Ilabet  nescio  quid  latentis  energise  vlvae 
voeis  actus,  et  in  aiires  discipuli  de  auctoris  ore  transfusa  fortis  sonat,”’ 


10 


ROMOLA. 


Tito’s  talents  for  diplomatic  work  had  been  well  ascertained, 
and  as  lie  gave  with  fulness  and  precision  the  results  of  his 
inquiries  and  interviews,  Bernardo  del  Nero,  who  was  at  that 
time  one  of  the  Ten,  could  not  withhold  his  admiration.  He 
would  have  withheld  it  if  he  could ;  for  his  original  dislike  of 
Tito  had  returned,  and  become  stronger,  since  the  sale  of  the 
library.  Romola  had  never  uttered  a  word  to  her  godfather 
on  the  circumstances  of  the  sale,  and  Bernardo  had  understood 
her  silence  as  a  prohibition  to  him  to  enter  on  the  subject,  but 
he  felt  sure  that  the  breach  of  her  father’s  wish  had  been  a 
blighting  grief  to  her,  and  the  old  man’s  observant  eyes  dis¬ 
cerned  other  indications  that  her  married  life  was  not  happy. 

“  Ah,”  he  said,  inwardly,  “  that  doubtless  is  the  reason  she 
has  taken  to  listening  to  Fra  Girolamo,  and  going  among  the 
Piagnoni,  which  I  never  expected  from  her.  These  women,  if 
they  are  not  happy,  and  have  no  children,  must  either  take  to 
folly  or  to  some  overstrained  religion  that  makes  them  think 
they ’ve  got  all  heaven’s  work  on  their  shoulders.  And  as  for 
my  poor  child  Eomola,  it  is  as  I  always  said  —  the  cramming 
with  Latin  and  Greek  has  left  her  as  much  a  woman  as  if  she 
had  done  nothing  all  day  but  prick  her  fingers  with  the  needle. 
And  this  husband  of  hers,  who  gets  employed  everywhere,  be¬ 
cause  he’s  a  tool  with  a  smooth  handle,  I  wish  Tornabuoni 
and  the  rest  may  not  find  their  fingers  cut.  Well,  well,  solco 
torto,  sacco  dritto  —  many  a  full  sack  comes  from  a  crooked 
furrow ;  and  he  who  will  be  captain  of  none  but  honest  mer 
will  have  small  hire  to  pay.” 

With  this  long-established  conviction  that  there  could  be  no 
moral  sifting  of  political  agents,  the  old  Florentine  abstained 
from  all  interference  in  Tito’s  disfavor.  Apart  from  what 
must  be  kept  sacred  and  private  for  Romola’s  sake,  Bernardo 
had  nothing  direct  to  allege  against  the  useful  Greek,  except 
that  he  was  a  Greek,  and  that  he,  Bernardo,  did  not  like  him ; 
for  the  doubleness  of  feigning  attaehment  to  the  popular  gov¬ 
ernment,  while  at  heart  a  Medicean,  was  common  to  Tito  with 
more  than  half  the  Medicean  party.  He  only  feigned  with 
more  skill  than  the  rest : .  that  was  all.  So  Bernardo  was 
simply  cold  to  Tito,  who  returned  the  coldness  with  a  scrupu- 


A'r  THE  BARBER’S  SHOP. 


11 


lous,  distant  respect.  And  it  was  still  the  notion  in  Florence 
that  the  old  tie  between  Bernardo  and  Bardo  made  any  ser¬ 
vice  done  to  Eomola’s  husband  an  acceptable  homage  to  her 
godfather. 

After  delivering  himself  of  his  charge  at  the  Old  Palace, 
Tito  felt  that  the  avowed  official  work  of  the  day  was  done. 
He  was  tired  and  adust  with  long  riding ;  but  he  did  not  go 
home.  There  were  certain  things  in  his  scarsella  and  on  his 
mind,  from  which  he  wished  to  free  himself  as  soon  as  pos¬ 
sible,  but  the  opportunities  must  be  found  so  skilfully  that 
they  must  not  seem  to  be  sought.  He  walked  from  the  Pa¬ 
lazzo  in  a  sauntering  fashion  towards  the  Piazza  del  Duomo. 
The  procession  was  at  an  end  now,  but  the  bells  were  still 
ringing,  and  the  people  were  moving  about  the  streets  rest¬ 
lessly,  longing  for  some  more  definite  vent  to  their  joy.  If 
the  Frate  could  have  stood  up  in  the  great  piazza  and  preached 
to  them,  they  might  have  been  satisfied,  but  now,  in  spite  of 
the  new  discipline  which  declared  Christ  to  be  the  special 
King  of  the  Florentines  and  required  all  pleasures  to  be  of 
a  Christian  sort,  there  was  a  secret  longing  in  many  of  the 
youngsters  who  shouted  “Viva  Gesii!”  for  a  little  vigorous 
stone-throwing  in  sign  of  thankfulness. 

Tito,  as  he  passed  along,  could  not  escape  being  recognized 
by  some  as  the  welcome  bearer  of  the  olive-branch,  and  could 
only  rid  himself  of  an  inconvenient  ovation,  chiefly  in  the 
form  of  eager  questions,  by  telling  those  who  pressed  on  him 
that  Meo  di  Sasso,  the  true  messenger  from  Leghorn,  must 
now  be  entering,  and  might  certainly  be  met  towards  the  Porta 
San  Frediano.  He  could  tell  much  more  than  Tito  knew. 

Freeing  himself  from  importunities  in  this  adroit  manner, 
he  made  his  way  to  the  Piazza  del  Duomo,  casting  his  long 
eyes  round  the  space  with  an  air  of  the  utmost  carelessness, 
but  really  seeking  to  detect  some  presence  which  might  fur¬ 
nish  him  with  one  of  his  desire<l  opportunities.  The  fact  of 
the  procession  having  terminated  at  the  Duomo  made  it  prob¬ 
able  that  there  would  be  more  than  the  usual  concentration  of 
loungers  and  talkers  in  the  piazza  and  round  Hello’s  shop.  It 
was  as  he  expected.  There  was  a  group  leaning  against  the 


12 


ROMOLA. 


rails  near  the  north  gates  of  the  baptistery,  so  exactly  what 
he  sought,  that  he  looked  more  indifferent  than  ever,  and 
seemed  to  recognize  the  tallest  member  of  the  group  entirely 
by  chance  as  he  had  half  passed  him,  just  turning  his  head  to 
give  him  a  slight  greeting,  while  he  tossed  the  end  of  his  hec- 
chstto  over  his  left  shoulder. 

Y^t  the  tall,  broad-shouldered  personage  greeted  in  that 
slight  way  looked  like  one  who  had  considerable  claims.  He 
wore  a  richly  embroidered  tunic,  with  a  great  show  of  linen, 
after  the  newest  French  mode,  and  at  his  belt  there  hung  a 
sword  and  poniard  of  fine  workmanship.  His  hat,  with  a  red 
plume  in  it,  seemed  a  scornful  protest  against  the  gravity  of 
Florentine  costume,  which  had  been  exaggerated  to  the  ut¬ 
most  under  the  influence  of  the  Piagnoni.  Certain  undefiu- 
able  indications  of  youth  made  the  breadth  of  his  face  and  the 
large  diameter  of  his  waist  appear  the  more  emphatically  a 
stamp  of  coarseness,  and  his  eyes  had  that  rude  desecrating 
stare  at  all  men  and  things  which  to  a  refined  mind  is  as 
intolerable  as  a  bad  odor  or  a  flaring  light. 

He  and  his  companions,  also  young  men  dressed  expensively 
and  wearing  arms,  were  exchanging  jokes  with  that  sort  of 
ostentatious  laughter  which  implies  a  desire  to  prove  that  the 
laughter  is  not  mortified  though  some  people  might  suspect  it. 
There  were  good  reasons  for  such  a  suspicion  ;  for  this  broad- 
shouldered  man  with  the  red  feather  was  Dolfo  Spini,  leader 
of  the  Oompagnacci,  or  Evil  Companions  —  that  is  to  say,  of 
all  the  dissolute  young  men  belonging  to  the  old  aristocratic 
party,  enemies  of  the  Mediceans,  enemies  of  the  popular  gov¬ 
ernment,  but  still  more  bitter  enemies  of  Savonarola.  Dolfo 
Spini,  heir  of  the  great  house  with  the  loggia,  over  the  bridge 
of  the  Santa  Trinita,  had  organized  these  young  men  into  an 
armed  band,  as  sworn  champions  of  extravagant  suppers  and 
all  the  pleasant  sins  of  the  flesh,  against  reforming  pietists 
who  threatened  to  make  the  world  chaste  and  temperate  to  so 
intolerable  a  degree  that  there  would  soon  be  no  reason  for 
living,  except  the  extreme  unpleasantness  of  the  alternative. 
Up  to  this  very  morning  he  had  been  loudly  declaring  that 
Florence  was  given  up  to  famine  and  ruin  entirely  through  its 


AT  THE  BAKBER’S  SHOP. 


blind  adherence  to  the  advice  of  the  Frate,  and  that  there  oould 
be  no  salvation  for  Florence  but  in  joining  the  League  and 
driving  the  Frate  out  of  the  city  —  sending  him.  to  Rome,  in 
fact,  whither  he  ought  to  have  gone  long  ago  in  obedience  to 
the  summons  of  the  Pope.  It  was  suspected,  therefore,  that 
Messer  Dolfo  Spini’s  heart  was  not  aglow  with  pure  joy  at  the 
unexpected  succors  which  had  come  in  apparent  fulfilment  of 
the  Frate’s  prediction,  and  the  laughter,  which  was  ringing 
out  afresh  as  Tito  joined  the  group  at  Nello’s  door,  did  not 
serve  to  dissipate  the  suspicion.  For  leaning  against  the  door¬ 
post  in  the  centre  of  the  group  was  a  close-shaven,  keen-eyed 
personage,  named  Niccolo  Macchiavelli,  who,  young  as  he  was, 
had  penetrated  all  the  small  secrets  of  egoism. 

Messer  Dolfo’s  head,”  he  was  saying,  “  is  more  of  a  pump¬ 
kin  than  I  thought.  I  measure  men’s  dulness  by  the  devices 
they  trust  in  for  deceiving  others.  Your  dullest  animal  of  all 
is  he  who  grins  and  says  he  does  n’t  mind  just  after  he  has 
had  his  shins  kicked.  If  I  were  a  trifle  duller,  now,”  he  went 
on,  smiling  as  the  circle  opened  to  admit  Tito,  I  should  pre¬ 
tend  to  be  fond  of  this  Melema,  who  has  got  a  secretaryship 
that  would  exactly  suit  me  —  as  if  Latin  ill-paid  could  love 
better  Latin  that ’s  better  paid !  Melema,  you  are  a  pestifer¬ 
ously  clever  fellow,  very  much  in  my  way,  and  I ’m  sorry  to 
hear  you’ve  had  another  piece  of  good-luck  to-day.” 

“Questionable  luck,  Niccolo,”  said  Tito,  touching  him  on 
the  shoulder  in  a  friendly  way ;  “  I  have  got  nothing  by  it  yet 
but  being  laid  hold  of  and  breathed  upon  by  wool-beaters,  when 
I  am  as  soiled  and  battered  with  riding  as  a  tabellario  (letter- 
carrier)  from  Bologna.” 

“Ah  !  you  want  a  touch  of  my  art,  Messer  Oratore,”  said 
Nello,  who  had  come  forward  at  the  sound  of  Tito’s  voice ; 
“your  chin,  I  perceive,  has  yesterday’s  crop  upon  it.  Come, 
come  —  consign  yourself  to  the  priest  of  all  the  Muses. 
Sandro,  quick  with  the  lather !  ” 

“In  truth,  Nello,  that  is  just  what  I  most  desire  at  this 
moment,”  said  Tito,  seating  himself ;  “  and  that  was  why  I 
turned  my  steps  towards  thy  shop,  instead  of  going  home  at 
once,  when  I  had  done  my  business  at  the  Palazzo.” 


14 


BOMOLA. 


“  Yes,  indeed,  it  is  not  fitting  that  you  should  present  your¬ 
self  to  Madonna  Eomola  with  a  rusty  chin  and  a  tangled 
zazzera.  Nothing  that  is  not  dainty  ought  to  approach  the 
Florentine  lily ;  though  I  see  her  constantly  going  about  like 
a  sunbeam  among  the  rags  that  line  our  corners  —  if  indeed 
she  is  not  more  like  a  moonbeam  now,  for  I  thought  yester¬ 
day,  when  I  met  her,  that  she  looked  as  pale  and  worn  as  that 
fainting  Madonna  of  Fra  Giovanni’s.  You  must  see  to  it,  my 
bel  erudito:  she  keeps  too  many  fasts  and  vigils  in  your 
absence.” 

Tito  gave  a  melancholy  shrug.  ‘‘It  is  too  true,  Nello.  She 
has  been  depriving  herself  of  half  her  proper  food  every  day 
during  this  famine.  But  what  can  I  do  ?  Her  mind  has  been 
set  all  aflame.  A  husband’s  influence  is  powerless  against  the 
Frate’s.” 

“As  every  other  influence  is  likely  to  be,  that  of  the  Holy 
Father  included,”  said  Domenico  Cennini,  one  of  the  group 
at  the  door,  who  had  turned  in  with  Tito.  “I  don’t  know 
whether  you  have  gathered  anything  at  Pisa  about  the  way 
the  wind  sits  at  Eome,  Melema  ?  ” 

“  Secrets  of  the  council  chamber,  Messer  Domenico !  ”  said 
Tito,  smiling  and  opening  his  palms  in  a  deprecatory  manner. 
“An  envoy  must  be  as  dumb  as  a  father  confessor.” 

“  Certainly,  certainly,”  said  Cennini.  “I  ask  for  no  breach 
of  that  rule.  Well,  my  belief  is,  that  if  his  Holiness  were  to 
drive  Fra  Girolamo  to  extremity,  the  Frate  would  move  heaven 
and  earth  to  get  a  General  Council  of  the  Church  —  ay,  and 
would  get  it  too ;  and  I,  for  one,  should  not  be  sorry,  though 
I ’m  no  Piagnone.” 

“With  leave  of  your  greater  experience,  Messer  Domenico,” 
said  Macchiavelli,  “  I  must  differ  from  you  —  not  in  your  wish 
to  see  a  General  Council  which  might  reform  the  Church,  but 
in  your  belief  that  the  Frate  will  checkmate  his  Holiness. 
The  Frate’s  game  is  an  impossible  one.  If  he  had  contented 
himself  with  preaching  against  the  vices  of  Eome,  and  with 
prophesying  that  in  some  way,  not  mentioned,  Italy  would  be 
scourged,  depend  upon  it  Pope  Alexander  would  have  allowed 
him  to  spend  his  breath  in  that  way  as  long  as  he  could  find 


AT  THE  BARBEE’S  SHOP. 


15 


flearers.  Such  spiritual  blasts  as  those  knock  no  walls  down. 
But  the  Frate  wants  to  be  something  more  than  a  spiritual 
trumpet :  he  wants  to  be  a  lever,  and  what  is  more,  he  is  a 
lever.  He  wants  to  spread  the  doctrine  of  Christ  by  main¬ 
taining  a  popular  government  in  Florence,  and  the  Pope, 
as  I  know,  on  the  best  authority,  has  private  views  to  the 
contrary.” 

‘^Then  Florence  will  stand  by  the  Frate,”  Cennini  broke 
in,  with  some  fervor.  “  1  myself  should  prefer  that  he  would 
let  his  prophesying  alone,  but  if  our  freedom  to  choose  our 
own  government  is  to  be  attacked  —  I  am  an  obedient  son  of 
the  Church,  but  I  would  vote  for  resisting  Pope  Alexander 
the  Sixth,  as  our  forefathers  resisted  Pope  Gregory  the 
Eleventh.” 

‘^But  pardon  me,  Messer  Domenico,”  said  Macchiavelli, 
sticking  his  thumbs  into  his  belt,  and  speaking  with  that  cool 
enjoyment  of  exposition  which  surmounts  every  other  force  in 
discussion.  “  Have  you  correctly  seized  the  Prate’s  position  ? 
How  is  it  that  he  has  become  a  lever,  and  made  himself  worth 
attacking  by  an  acute  man  like  his  Holiness  ?  Because  he  has 
got  the  ear  of  the  people  :  because  he  gives  them  threats  and 
promises,  which  they  believe  come  straight  from  God,  not 
only  about  hell,  purgatory,  and  paradise,  but  about  Pisa  and 
our  Great  Council.  But  let  events  go  against  him,  so  as  to 
shake  the  people’s  faith,  and  the  cause  of  his  power  will  be  the 
cause  of  his  fall.  He  is  accumulating  three  sorts  of  hatred  on 
his  head  —  the  hatred  of  average  mankind  against  every  one 
who  wants  to  lay  on  them  a  strict  yoke  of  virtue  ;  the  hatred 
of  the  stronger  powers  in  Italy  who  want  to  farm  Florence  for 
their  own  purposes ;  and  the  hatred  of  the  people,  to  whom  he 
has  ventured  to  promise  good  in  this  world,  instead  of  confining 
his  promises  to  the  next.  If  a  prophet  is  to  keep  his  power, 
he  must  be  a  prophet  like  Mahomet,  with  an  army  at  his  back, 
that  when  the  people’s  faith  is  fainting  it  may  be  frightened 
into  life  again.” 

“  Rather  sum  up  the  three  sorts  of  hatred  in  one,”  said 
Francesco  Cei,  impetuously,  “and  say  he  has  won  the  hatred 
of  all  men  who  have  sense  and  honesty,  by  inventing  hypocriti- 


16 


ROMOLA. 


cal  lies.  His  proper  place  is  among  the  false  prophets  in  the 
Inferno,  who  walk  with  their  heads  turned  hindforemost.” 

“  You  are  too  angry,  my  Francesco,”  said  Macchiavelli,  smil¬ 
ing  ;  “  you  poets  are  apt  to  cut  the  clouds  in  your  wrath.  I 
am  no  votary  of  the  Frate’s,  and  would  not  lay  down  my  littlo 
finger  for  his  veracity.  But  veracity  is  a  plant  of  paradise, 
and  the  seeds  have  never  flourished  beyond  the  walls.  You, 
yourself,  my  Francesco,  tell  poetical  lies  only;  partly  com¬ 
pelled  by  the  poet’s  fervor,  partly  to  please  your  audience ; 
but  you  object  to  lies  in  prose.  Well,  the  Frate  differs  from 
you  as  to  the  boundary  of  poetry,  that ’s  all.  When  he  gets 
into  the  pulpit  of  the  Duomo,  he  has  the  fervor  within  him, 
and  without  him  he  has  the  audience  to  please.  Ecco !  ” 

“  You  are  somewhat  lax  there,  Niccolo,”  said  Cennini,  gravely. 
“I  myself  believe  in  the  Frate’s  integrity,  though  I  don’t  be¬ 
lieve  in  his  prophecies,  and  as  long  as  his  integrity  is  not  dis¬ 
proved,  we  have  a  popular  party  strong  enough  to  protect  him 
and  resist  foreign  interference.” 

“  A  party  that  seems  strong  enough,”  said  Macchiavelli, 
with  a  shrug,  and  an  almost  imperceptible  glance  towards 
Tito,  who  was  abandoning  himself  with  much  enjoyment  to 
Nello’s  combing  and  scenting.  “But  how  many  Mediceans 
are  there  among  you  ?  How  many  who  will  not  be  turned 
round  by  a  private  grudge  ?  ” 

“As  to  the  Mediceans,”  said  Cennini,  “I  believe  there  is 
very  little  genuine  feeling  left  on  behalf  of  the  Medici.  Who 
would  risk  much  for  Piero  de’  Medici  ?  A  few  old  stanch 
friends,  perhaps,  like  Bernardo  del  Nero ;  but  even  some  of 
those  most  connected  with  the  family  are  hearty  friends  of 
the  popular  government,  and  would  exert  themselves  for  the 
Frate.  I  was  talking  to  Giannozzo  Pucci  only  a  little  while 
ago,  and  I  am  convinced  there ’s  nothing  he  would  set  his  face 
against  more  than  against  any  attempt  to  alter  the  new  order 
of  things.” 

“  You  are  right  there,  Messer  Domenico,”  said  Tito,  with  a 
laughing  meaning  in  his  eyes,  as  he  rose  from  the  shaving- 
chair  ;  “  and  I  fancy  the  tender  passion  came  in  aid  of  hard 
theory  there.  I  am  persuaded  there  was  some  jealousy  at 


AT  THE  BARBER’S  SHOP. 


17 


the  bottom  of  Giannozzo’s  alienation  from  Piero  de’  Medici ; 
else  so  amiable  a  creature  as  lie  would  never  feel  the  bitter¬ 
ness  he  sometimes  allows  to  escape  him  in  that  quarter.  He 
was  in  the  procession  with  you,  I  suppose  ?  ” 

“  No,”  said  Cennini ;  “  he  is  at  his  villa  —  went  there  three 
days  ago.” 

Tito  was  settling  his  cap  and  glancing  down  at  his  splashed 
hose  as  if  he  hardly  heeded  the  answer.  In  reality  he  had 
obtained  a  much-desired  piece  of  information.  He  had  at  that 
moment  in  his  scarsella  a  crushed  gold  ring  which  he  had 
engaged  to  deliver  to  Giannozzo  Pucci.  He  had  received  it 
from  an  envoy  of  Piero  de’  Medici,  whom  he  had  ridden  out  of 
his  way  to  meet  at  Certaldo  on  the  Siena  road.  Since  Pucci 
was  not  in  the  town,  he  would  send  the  ring  by  Fra  Michele,  a 
Carthusian  lay  Brother  in  the  service  of  the  Mediceans,  and 
the  receipt  of  that  sign  would  bring  Pucci  back  to  hear  the 
verbal  part  of  Tito’s  mission. 

‘‘Behold  him  !  ”  said  Nello,  flourishing  his  comb  and  point 
ing  it  at  Tito,  “  the  handsomest  scholar  in  the  world  or  in 
the  wolds,^  now  he  has  passed  through  my  hands  !  A  trifle 
thinner  in  the  face,  though,  than  when  he  came  in  his  first 
bloom  to  Florence  —  eh  ?  and,  I  vow,  there  are  some  lines  just 
faintly  hinting  themselves  about  your  mouth,  Messer  Oratore  ! 
Ah,  mind  is  an  enemy  to  beauty  !  I  myself  was  thought 
beautiful  by  the  women  at  one  time  —  when  I  was  in  my 
swaddling-bands.  But  now  —  oime  !  I  carry  my  unwritten 
poems  in  cipher  on  my  face  !  ” 

Tito,  laughing  with  the  rest  as  Nello  looked  at  himself 
tragically  in  the  hand-mirror,  made  a  sign  of  farewell  to  the 
company  generally,  and  took  his  departure. 

“I’m  of  our  old  Piero  di  Cosimo’s  mind,”  said  Francesco 
Cei.  “  I  don’t  half  like  Melema.  That  trick  of  smiling  gets 
stronger  than  ever  —  no  wonder  he  has  lines  about  the 
mouth.” 

“  He ’s  too  successful,”  said  Macchiavelli,  playfully.  “  I ’m 
sure  there ’s  something  wrong  about  him,  else  he  would  n’t 
have  that  secretaryship.” 

1  “  Del  mondo  o  di  maremma.” 

VOL.  ri. 


18 


ROMOLA. 


“  He ’s  an  able  man,”  said  Cennini,  in  a  tone  of  judicial 
fairness.  “  I  and  my  brother  have  always  found  him  useful 
with  our  Greek  sheets,  and  he  gives  great  satisfaction  to  the 
Ten.  I  like  to  see  a  young  man  work  his  way  upward  by 
merit.  And  the  secretary  Scala,  who  befriended  him  from  the 
first,  thinks  highly  of  him  still,  I  know.” 

“  Doubtless,”  said  a  notary  in  the  background.  “  He  writes 
Scala’s  official  letters  for  him,  or  corrects  them,  and  gets  well 
paid  for  it  too.” 

“  I  wish  Messer  Bartolommeo  would  pay  me  to  doctor  his 
gouty  Latin,”  said  Macchiavelli,  with  a  shrug.  “  Did  he  tell 
you  about  the  pay,  Ser  Ceccone,  or  was  it  Melema  him¬ 
self  ?  ”  he  added,  looking  at  the  notary  with  a  face  ironically 
innocent. 

Melema  ?  no,  indeed,”  answered  Ser  Ceccone.  “  He  is  as 
close  as  a  nut.  He  never  brags.  That ’s  why  he ’s  employed 
everywhere.  They  say  he ’s  getting  rich  with  doing  all  sorts 
of  underhand  work.” 

“  It  is  a  little  too  bad,”  said  Macchiavelli,  “  and  so  many 
able  notaries  out  of  employment !  ” 

“  Well,  I  must  say  I  thought  that  was  a  nasty  story  a  year 
or  two  ago  about  the  man  who  said  he  had  stolen  jewels,”  said 
Cei.  It  got  hushed  up  somehow  ;  but  I  remember  Piero  di 
Cosimo  said,  at  the  time,  he  believed  there  was  something  in 
it,  for  he  saw  Melema’s  face  when  the  man  laid  hold  of  him, 
and  he  never  saw  a  visage  so  ‘  painted  with  fear,’  as  our  sour 
old  Dante  says.” 

‘‘  Come,  spit  no  more  of  that  venom,  Prancesco,”  said  Hello, 
getting  indignant,  ‘‘  else  I  shall  consider  it  a  public  duty  to 
cut  your  hair  awry  the  next  time  I  get  you  under  my  scissors. 
That  story  of  the  stolen  jewels  was  a  lie.  Bernardo  Bucellai 
and  the  Magnificent  Eight  knew  all  about  it.  The  man  was 
a  dangerous  madman,  and  he  was  very  properly  kept  out  of 
mischief  in  prison.  As  for  our  Piero  di  Cosimo,  his  wits  are 
running  after  the  wind  of  Mongibello  :  he  has  such  an  extrava¬ 
gant  fancy  that  he  would  take  a  lizard  for  a  crocodile.  No  : 
that  story  has  been  dead  and  buried  too  long  —  our  noses 
object  to  it.” 


BY  A  STREET  LAMP. 


19 


is  true,”  said  Macchiavelli.  “You  forget  the  danger 
of  the  precedent,  Francesco.  The  next  mad  beggarman  may 
accuse  you  of  stealing  his  verses,  or  me,  God  help  me !  of 
stealing  his  coppers.  Ah  !  ”  he  went  on,  turning  towards  the 
door,  “Dolfo  Spini  has  carried  his  red  feather  out  of  the 
piazza.  That  captain  of  swaggerers  would  like  the  Republic 
to  lose  Pisa  just  for  the  chance  of  seeing  the  people  tear  the 
frock  off  the  Prate’s  back.  With  your  pardon,  Francesco  —  I 
know  he  is  a  friend  of  yours  —  there  are  few  things  I  should 
like  better  than  to  see  him  play  the  part  of  Capo  d’Oca,  who 
went  out  to  the  tournament  blowing  his  trumpets  and  returned 
with  them  in  a  bag.” 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 

BY  A  STREET  LAMP. 

That  evening,  when  it  was  dark  and  threatening  rain, 
Romola,  returning  with  Maso  and  the  lantern  by  her  side, 
from  the  hospital  of  San  Matteo,  which  she  had  visited  after 
vespers,  encountered  her  husband  just  issuing  from  the  monas¬ 
tery  of  San  Marco.  Tito,  who  had  gone  out  again  shortly 
after  his  arrival  in  the  Via  de’  Bardi,  and  had  seen  little  of 
Romola  during  the  day,  immediately  proposed  to  accompany 
her  home,  dismissing  Maso,  whose  short  steps  annoyed  him. 
It  was  only  usual  for  him  to  pay  her  such  an  official  attention 
when  it  was  obviously  demanded  from  him.  Tito  and  Romola 
never  jarred,  never  remonstrated  with  each  other.  They  were 
too  hopelessly  alienated  in  their  inner  life  ever  to  have  that 
contest  which  is  an  effort  towards  agreement.  They  talked 
of  all  affairs,  public  and  private,  with  careful  adherence  to  an 
adopted  course.  If  Tito  wanted  a  supper  prepared  in  the 
old  library,  now  pleasantly  furnished  as  a  banqueting-room, 
Romola  assented,  and  saw  that  everything  needful  was  done : 
and  Tito,  on  his  side,  left  her  entirely  uncontrolled  in  her 


20 


EOMOLA. 


daily  habits,  accepting  the  help  she  offered  him  in  transcrib 
ing  or  making  digests,  and  in  return  meeting  her  conjectured 
want  of  supplies  for  her  charities.  Yet  he  constantly,  as  on 
this  very  morning,  avoided  exchanging  glances  with  her ; 
affected  to  believe  that  she  was  out  of  the  house,  in  order  to 
avoid  seeking  her  in  her  own  room  ;  and  playfully  attributed 
to  her  a  perpetual  preference  of  solitude  to  his  society. 

In  the  first  ardor  of  her  self-conquest,  after  she  had  re¬ 
nounced  her  resolution  of  flight,  Eomola  had  made  many 
timid  efforts  towards  the  return  of  a  frank  relation  between 
them.  But  to  her  such  a  relation  could  only  come  by  open 
speech  about  their  differences,  and  the  attempt  to  arrive  at  a 
in  oral  understanding ;  while  Tito  could  only  be  saved  from 
ilienation  from  her  by  such  a  recovery  of  her  effusive  tender¬ 
ness  as  would  have  presupposed  oblivion  of  their  differences. 
He  cared  for  no  explanation  between  them  ;  he  felt  any 
thorough  explanation  impossible :  he  would  have  cared  to 
have  Eomola  fond  again,  and  to  her,  fondness  was  impossible. 
She  could  be  submissive  and  gentle,  she  could  repress  any 
sign  of  repulsion ;  but  tenderness  was  not  to  be  feigned. 
She  was  helplessly  conscious  of  the  result :  her  husband  was 
alienated  from  her. 

It  was  an  additional  reason  why  she  should  be  carefully 
kept  outside  of  secrets  which  he  would  in  no  case  have  chosen 
to  communicate  to  her.  With  regard  to  his  political  action  he 
sought  to  convince  her  that  he  considered  the  cause  of  the 
Medici  hopeless;  and  that  on  that  practical  ground,  as  well 
as  in  theory,  he  heartily  served  the  popular  government,  in 
which  she  had  now  a  warm  interest.  But  impressions  subtle 
as  odors  made  her  uneasy  about  his  relations  with  San  Marco. 
She  was  painfully  divided  between  the  dread  of  seeing  any 
evidence  to  arouse  her  suspicions,  and  the  impulse  to  watch 
lest  any  harm  should  come  that  she  might  have  arrested. 

As  they  walked  together  this  evening,  Tito  said  —  “  The 
business  of  the  day  is  not  yet  quite  ended  for  me.  I  shall 
conduct  you  to  our  door,  my  Eomola,  and  then  I  must  fulfil 
another  commission,  which  will  take  me  an  hour,  perhaps, 
before  I  can  return  and  rest,  as  I  very  much  need  to  do.” 


BY  A  STREET  LAMP. 


21 


And  then  lie  talked  amusingly  of  what  he  had  seen  at  Pisa, 
until  they  were  close  upon  a  loggia,  near  which  there  hung  a 
lamp  before  a  picture  of  the  Virgin.  The  street  was  a  quiet  one, 
and  hitherto  they  had  passed  few  people ;  but  now  there  was 
a  sound  of  many  approaching  footsteps  and  confused  voices. 

‘^We  shall  not  get  home  without  a  wetting,  unless  we  take 
shelter  under  this  convenient  loggia,”  Tito  said,  hastily,  hur¬ 
rying  Romola,  with  a  slightly  startled  movement,  up  the  step 
of  the  loggia. 

“  Surely  it  is  useless  to  wait  for  this  small  drizzling  rain,’^ 
said  Eomola,  in  surprise. 

“  No  :  I  felt  it  becoming  heavier.  Let  us  wait  a  little.” 
With  that  wakefulness  to  the  faintest  indication  which  belongs 
to  a  mind  habitually  in  a  state  of  caution,  Tito  had  detected 
by  the  glimmer  of  the  lamp  that  the  leader  of  the  advancing 
group  wore  a  red  feather  and  a  glittering  sword-hilt  —  in  fact, 
was  almost  the  last  person  in  the  world  he  would  have  chosen 
to  meet  at  this  hour  with  Eomola  by  his  side.  He  had  already 
during  the  day  had  one  momentous  interview  with  Dolfo  Spini, 
and  the  business  he  had  spoken  of  to  Eomola  as  yet  to  be  done 
was  a  second  interview  with  that  personage,  a  sequence  of  the 
visit  he  had  paid  at  San  Marco.  Tito,  by  a  long-preconcerted 
plan,  had  been  the  bearer  of  letters  to  Savonarola  —  carefully 
forged  letters ;  one  of  them,  by  a  stratagem,  bearing  the  very 
signature  and  seal  of  the  Cardinal  of  Naples,  who  of  all  the 
Sacred  College  had  most  exerted  his  influence  at  Eome  in 
favor  of  the  Prate.  The  purport  of  the  letters  was  to  state 
that  the  Cardinal  was  on  his  progress  from  Pisa,  and,  unwilling 
for  strong  reasons  to  enter  Florence,  yet  desirous  of  taking 
counsel  with  Savonarola  at  this  difficult  juncture,  intended  to 
pause  this  very  day  at  San  Casciano,  about  ten  miles  from  the 
city,  whence  he  would  ride  out  the  next  morning  in  the  plain 
garb  of  a  priest,  and  meet  Savonarola,  as  if  casually,  five  milso 
on  the  Florence  road,  two  hours  after  sunrise.  The  plot,  of 
which  these  forged  letters  were  the  initial  step,  was  that  Dolfo 
Spini  with  a  band  of  his  Compagnacci  was  to  be  posted  in 
ambush  on  the  road,  at  a  lonely  spot  about  five  miles  from 
the  gates;  that  he  was  to  seize  Savonarola  with  the  Dominican 


22 


ROMOLA. 


brother  who  would  accompany  him  according  to  rule,  and 
deliver  him  over  to  a  small  detachment  of  Milanese  horse  in 
readiness  near  San  Casciano,  by  whom  he  was  to  be  carried 
into  the  Roman  territory. 

There  was  a  strong  chance  that  the  penetrating  Frate  would 
suspect  a  trap,  and  decline  to  incur  the  risk,  which  he  had  for 
some  time  avoided,  of  going  beyond  the  city  walls.  Even 
when  he  preached,  his  friends  held  it  necessary  that  he  should 
be  attended  by  an  armed  guard ;  and  here  he  was  called  on  to 
commit  himself  to  a  solitary  road,  with  no  other  attendant 
than  a  fellow-monk.  On  this  ground  the  minimum  of  time 
had  been  given  him  for  decision,  and  the  chance  in  favor  of 
his  acting  on  the  letters  was,  that  the  eagerness  with  which 
his  mind  was  set  on  the  combining  of  interests  within  and 
without  the  Church  towards  the  procuring  of  a  General  Coun¬ 
cil,  and  also  the  expectation  of  immediate  service  from  the 
Cardinal  in  the  actual  juncture  of  his  contest  with  the  Pope, 
would  triumph  over  his  shrewdness  and  caution  in  the  brief 
space  allowed  for  deliberation. 

Tito  had  had  an  audience  of  Savonarola,  having  declined  to 
put  the  letters  into  any  hands  but  his,  and  with  consummate 
art  had  admitted  that  incidentally,  and  by  inference,  he  was 
able  so  far  to  conjecture  their  purport  as  to  believe  they  re¬ 
ferred  to  a  rendezvous  outside  the  gates,  in  which  case  he 
urged  that  the  Frate  should  seek  an  armed  guard  from  the 
Signoria,  and  offered  his  services  in  carrying  the  request  with 
the  utmost  privacy.  Savonarola  had  replied  briefly  that  this 
was  impossible :  an  armed  guard  was  incompatible  with  privacy. 
He  spoke  with  a  flashing  eye,  and  Tito  felt  convinced  that  he 
meant  to  incur  the  risk. 

Tito  himself  did  not  much  care  for  the  result.  He  managed 
his  affairs  so  cleverly,  that  all  results,  he  considered,  must 
turn  to  his  advantage.  Whichever  party  came  uppermost,  he 
was  secure  of  favor  and  money.  That  is  an  indecorously  naked 
statement ;  the  fact,  clothed  as  Tito  habitually  clothed  it,  was 
that  his  acute  mind,  discerning  the  equal  hollowness  of  all 
parties,  took  the  only  rational  course  in  making  them  sub 
servient  to  his  own  interest. 


BY  A  STREET  LAMP. 


23 


If  Savonarola  fell  into  the  snare,  there  were  diamonds  in 
question  and  papal  patronage  ;  if  not,  Tito’s  adroit  agency  had 
strengthened  his  position  with  Savonarola  and  with  Spini, 
while  any  confidences  he  obtained  from  them  made  him  the 
more  valuable  as  an  agent  of  the  Mediceans. 

But  Spini  was  an  inconvenient  colleague.  He  had  cunning 
enough  to  delight  in  plots,  but  not  the  ability  or  self-command 
necessary  to  so  complex  an  effect  as  secrecy.  He  frequently 
got  excited  with  drinking,  for  even  sober  Florence  had  its 
‘‘  Beoni,”  or  topers,  both  lay  and  clerical,  who  became  loud  at 
taverns  and  private  banquets;  and  in  spite  of  the  agreement  be> 
tween  him  and  Tito,  that  their  public  recognition  of  each  other 
should  invariably  be  of  the  coolest  sort,  there  was  always  the 
possibility  that  on  an  evening  encounter  he  would  be  suddenly 
blurting  and  affectionate.  The  delicate  sign  of  casting  the 
becchetto  over  the  left  shoulder  was  understood  in  the  morn¬ 
ing,  but  the  strongest  hint  short  of  a  threat  might  not  suffice 
to  keep  off  a  fraternal  grasp  of  the  shoulder  in  the  evening. 

Tito’s  chief  hope  now  was  that  Dolfo  Spini  had  not  caught 
sight  of  him,  and  the  hope  would  have  been  well  founded  if 
Spini  had  had  no  clearer  view  of  him  than  he  had  caught  of 
Spini.  But,  himself  in  shadow,  he  had  seen  Tito  illuminated 
for  an  instant  by  the  direct  rays  of  the  lamp,  and  Tito  in  his 
way  was  as  strongly  marked  a  personage  as  the  captain  of  the 
Corapagnacci.  Romola’s  black-shrouded  figure  had  escaped 
notice,  and  she  now  stood  behind  her  husband’s  shoulder  in 
the  corner  of  the  loggia.  Tito  was  not  left  to  hope  long. 

“  Ha !  my  carrier-pigeon  !  ”  grated  Spini’s  harsh  voice,  in 
wliat  he  meant  to  be  an  undertone,  while  his  hand  grasped 
Tito’s  shoulder ;  what  did  you  run  into  hiding  for  ?  You 
(lid  n’t  know  it  was  comrades  who  were  coming.  It ’s  well  I 
caught  sight  of  you  ;  it  saves  time.  What  of  the  chase  to- 
moiTow  morning  ?  Will  the  bald-headed  game  rise  ?  Are 
the  falcons  to  be  got  ready  ?  ” 

If  it  had  been  in  Tito’s  nature  to  feel  an  access  of  rage,  he 
would  have  felt  it  against  this  bull-faced  accomplice,  ujifit 
either  for  a  leader  or  a  tool.  His  lips  turned  white,  but  his 
excitement  came  from  the  pressing  difficulty  of  choosing  a  safe 


24 


ROMOI  A. 


device.  If  he  attempted  to  hush  Spini,  that  would  only 
deepen  Romola’s  suspicion,  and  he  knew  her  well  enough  to 
know  that  if  some  strong  alarm  were  roused  in  her,  she 
was  neither  to  be  silenced  nor  hoodwinked :  on  the  other  hand, 
if  he  repelled  Spini  angrily  the  wine-breathing  Compagnaccio 
might  become  savage,  being  more  ready  at  resentment  than  at 
the  divination  of  motives.  He  adopted  a  third  course,  which 
proved  that  Romola  retained  one  sort  of  power  over  him  — 
the  power  of  dread. 

He  pressed  her  hand,  as  if  intending  a  hint  to  her,  and  said 
in  a  good-humored  tone  of  comradeship  — 

“  Yes,  my  Dolfo,  you  may  prepare  in  all  security.  But  take 
no  trumpets  with  you.” 

“  Don’t  be  afraid,”  said  Spini,  a  little  piqued.  “No  need  to 
play  Ser  Saccente  with  me.  I  know  where  the  devil  keeps 
his  tail  as  well  as  you  do.  What !  he  swallowed  the  bait 
whole  ?  The  prophetic  nose  did  n’t  scent  the  hook  at  all  ?  ” 
he  went  on,  lowering  his  tone  a  little,  with  a  blundering  sense 
of  secrecy. 

“  The  brute  will  not  be  satisfied  till  he  has  emptied  the 
bag,”  thought  Tito  :  but  aloud  he  said,  —  “  Swallowed  all  as 
easily  as  you  swallow  a  cup  of  Trebbiano.  Ha  !  I  see  torches  : 
there  must  be  a  dead  body  coming.  The  pestilence  has  been 
spreading,  I  hear.” 

“  Santiddio  !  I  hate  the  sight  of  those  biers.  Good-night,” 
said  Spini,  hastily  moving  off. 

The  torches  were  really  coming,  but  they  preceded  a  church 
dignitary  who  was  returning  homeward  ;  the  suggestion  of 
the  dead  body  and  the  pestilence  was  Tito’s  device  for  getting 
rid  of  Spini  without  telling  him  to  go.  The  moment  he  had 
moved  away,  Tito  turned  to  Eomola,  and  said,  quietly  — 

“  Do  not  be  alarmed  by  anything  that  bestia  has  said, 
my  Eomola.  We  will  go  on  now :  I  think  the  rain  has  not 
increased.” 

She  was  quivering  with  indignant  resolution ;  it  was  of  no 
use  for  Tito  to  speak  in  that  unconcerned  way.  She  dis¬ 
trusted  every  word  he  could  utter. 

“  I  will  not  go  on,”  she  said.  “  I  will  not  move  nearer 


BY  A  STKEET  LAMP. 


home  until  I  have  some  security  against  this  treachery  being 
perpetrated.” 

“Wait,  at  least,  until  these  torches  have  passed,”  said  Tito, 
with  perfect  self-command,  but  with  a  new  rising  of  dislike  to 
a  wife  who  this  time,  he  foresaw,  might  have  the  power  of 
thwarting  him  in  spite  of  the  husband’s  predominance. 

The  torches  passed,  with  the  Vicario  dell’  Arcivescovo,  and 
due  reverence  was  done  by  Tito,  but  Komola  saw  nothing 
outward.  If  for  the  defeat  of  this  treachery,  in  which  she 
believed  with  all  the  force  of  long  presentiment,  it  had  been 
necessary  at  that  moment  for  her  to  spring  on  her  husband 
and  hurl  herself  with  him  down  a  precipice,  she  felt  as  if  she 
could  have  done  it.  Union  with  this  man  !  At  that  moment 
the  self-quelling  discipline  of  two  years  seemed  to  be  nullified : 
she  felt  nothing  but  that  they  were  divided. 

They  were  nearly  in  darkness  again,  and  could  only  see 
each  other’s  faces  dimly. 

“  Tell  me  the  truth,  Tito  —  this  time  tell  me  the  truth,”  said 
Romola,  in  a  low  quivering  voice.  “  It  will  be  safer  for  you.” 

“  Why  should  I  desire  to  tell  you  anything  else,  my  angry 
saint  ?  ”  said  Tito,  with  a  slight  touch  of  contempt,  which 
was  the  vent  of  his  annoyance ;  “  since  the  truth  is  precisely 
that  over  which  you  have  most  reason  to  rejoice  —  namely, 
that  my  knowing  a  plot  of  Spini’s  enables  me  to  secure  the 
Frate  from  falling  a  victim  to  it.” 

“  What  is  the  plot  ?  ” 

“  That  I  decline  to  tell,”  said  Tito.  “  It  is  enough  that  the 
Frate’s  safety  will  be  secured.” 

“  It  is  a  plot  for  drawing  him  outside  the  gates  that  Spini 
may  murder  him.” 

“  There  has  been  no  intention  of  murder.  It  is  simply  a 
plot  for  compelling  him  to  obey  the  Pope’s  summons  to  Rome. 
But  as  I  serve  the  popular  government,  and  think  the  Prate’s 
presence  here  is  a  necessary  means  of  maintaining  it  at  pres¬ 
ent,  I  choose  to  prevent  his  departure.  You  may  go  to  sleep 
with  entire  ease  of  mind  to-night.” 

For  a  moment  Romola  was  silent.  Then  she  said,  in  a  voice 
of  anguish,  “  Tito,  it  is  of  no  use :  I  have  no  belief  in  you.” 


26 


ROMOLA. 


She  could  just  discern  his  action  as  he  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  and  spread  out  his  palms  in  silence.  That  cold 
dislike  which  is  the  anger  of  unimpassioned  beings  was  hard¬ 
ening  within  him. 

“  If  the  Frate  leaves  the  city  —  if  any  harm  happens  to 
him,”  said  Romola,  after  a  slight  pause,  in  a  new  tone  of 
indignant  resolution,  —  “I  will  declare  what  I  have  heard  to 
the  Signoria,  and  you  will  be  disgraced.  What  if  I  am  your 
wife  ?  ”  she  went  on,  impetuously ;  “  I  will  be  disgraced  with 
you.  If  we  are  united,  I  am  that  part  of  you  that  will  save 
you  from  crime.  Others  shall  not  be  betrayed.” 

“  I  am  quite  aware  of  what  you  would  be  likely  to  do, 
anima  mia,’’  said  Tito,  in  the  coolest  of  his  liquid  tones ; 

therefore  if  you  have  a  small  amount  of  reasoning  at  your 
disposal  just  now,  consider  that  if  you  believe  me  in  nothing 
else,  you  may  believe  me  when  I  say  I  will  take  care  of  myself, 
and  not  put  it  in  your  power  to  ruin  me.” 

“  Then  you  assure  me  that  the  Frate  is  warned  —  he  will  not 
go  beyond  the  gates  ?  ” 

“  He  shall  not  go  beyond  the  gates.” 

There  was  a  moment’s  pause,  but  distrust  was  not  to  be 
expelled. 

‘‘  I  will  go  back  to  San  Marco  now  and  find  out,”  Romola 
said,  making  a  movement  forward. 

“  You  shall  not !  ”  said  Tito,  in  a  bitter  whisper,  seizing  her 
wrists  with  all  his  masculine  force.  “I  am  master  of  you. 
You  shall  not  set  yourself  in  opposition  to  me.” 

There  were  passers-by  approaching.  Tito  had  heard  them, 
and  that  was  why  he  spoke  in  a  whisper.  Romola  was  too 
conscious  of  being  mastered  to  have  struggled,  even  if  she  had 
remained  unconscious  that  witnesses  were  at  hand.  But  she 
was  aware  now  of  footsteps  and  voices,  and  her  habitual  sense 
of  personal  dignity  made  her  at  once  yield  to  Tito’s  movement 
towards  leading  her  from  the  loggia. 

They  walked  on  in  silence  for  some  time,  under  the  small 
drizzling  rain.  The  first  rush  of  indignation  and  alarm  in 
Romola  had  begun  to  give  way  to  more  complicated  feelings, 
which  rendered  speech  and  action  difficult.  In  that  simpler 


BY  A  STREET  LAMP. 


27 


gtate  of  vehemence,  open  opposition  to  the  husband  from  whom 
she  felt  her  soul  revolting  had  had  the  aspect  of  temptation 
for  her  ;  it  seemed  the  easiest  of  all  courses.  But  now,  habits 
of  self-questioning,  memories  of  impulse  subdued,  and  that 
proud  reserve  which  all  discipline  had  left  unmodified,  began 
to  emerge  from  the  flood  of  passion.  The  grasp  of  her  wrists, 
which  asserted  her  husband’s  physical  predominance,  instead 
of  arousing  a  new  flerceness  in  her,  as  it  might  have  done  if 
her  impetuosity  had  been  of  a  more  vulgar  kind,  had  given  her 
a  momentary  shuddering  horror  at  this  form  of  contest  with 
him.  It  was  the  first  time  they  had  been  in  declared  hostility 
to  each  other  since  her^  flight  and  return,  and  the  check  given 
to  her  ardent  resolution  then,  retained  the  power  to  arrest  her 
now.  In  this  altered  condition  her  mind  began  to  dwell  on 
the  probabilities  that  would  save  her  from  any  desperate 
course  :  Tito  would  not  risk  betrayal  by  her ;  whatever  had 
been  his  original  intention,  he  must  be  determined  now  by  the 
fact  that  she  knew  of  the  plot.  She  was  not  bound  now  to  do 
anything  else  than  to  hang  over  him  that  certainty,  that  if  he 
deceived  her,  her  lips  would  not  be  closed.  And  then,  it  was 
possible  —  yes,  she  must  cling  to  that  possibility  till  it  was 
disproved  —  that  Tito  had  never  meant  to  aid  in  the  betrayal 
of  the  Frate. 

Tito,  on  his  side,  was  busy  with  thoughts,  aud  did  not  speak 
again  till  they  were  near  home.  Then  he  said  — 

“  Well,  Romola,  have  you  now  had  time  to  recover  calmness  ? 
If  so,  you  can  supply  your  want  of  belief  in  me  by  a  little 
rational  inference :  you  can  see,  I  presume,  that  if  I  had  had 
any  intention  of  furthering  Spini’s  plot,  I  should  now  be  aware 
that  the  possession  of  a  fair  Piagnone  for  my  wife,  who  knows 
the  secret  of  the  plot,  would  be  a  serious  obstacle  in  my 
way.” 

Tito  assumed  the  tone  which  was  just  then  the  easiest  to 
him,  conjecturing  that  in  Romola’s  present  mood  persuasive 
deprecation  would  be  lost  upon  her. 

‘‘Yes,  Tito,”  she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  “I  think  you  believe 
that  I  would  guard  the  Republic  from  further  treachery.  You 
are  right  to  believe  it:  if  the  Frate  is  betrayed,  I  will  de 


28 


ROMOLA. 


nounce  you,”  She  paused  a  moment,  and  then  said,  with  an 
effort,  But  it  was  not  so.  I  have  perhaps  spoken  too  hastily 
—  you  never  meant  it.  Only,  why  will  you  seem  to  be  that 
man’s  comrade  ?  ” 

“  Such  relations  are  inevitable  to  practical  men,  my  Eomola,” 
said  Tito,  gratified  by  discerning  the  struggle  within  her. 

You  fair  creatures  live  in  the  clouds.  Pray  go  to  rest  with 
an  easy  heart,”  he  added,  opening  the  door  for  her. 


♦ 


CHAPTER  XLVii. 

CHECK. 

Tito’s  clever  arrangements  had  been  unpleasantly  frustrated 
by  trivial  incidents  which  could  not  enter  into  a  clever  man’s 
calculations.  It  was  very  seldom  that  he  walked  with  Romola 
in  the  evening,  yet  he  had  happened  to  be  walking  with  her 
precisely  on  this  evening  when  her  presence  was  supremely 
inconvenient.  Life  was  so  complicated  a  game  that  the  de¬ 
vices  of  skill  were  liable  to  be  defeated  at  every  turn  by  air- 
blown  chances,  incalculable  as  the  descent  of  thistle-down. 

It  was  not  that  he  minded  about  the  failure  of  Spini’s  plot, 
but  he  felt  an  awkward  difficulty  in  so  adjusting  his  warning 
to  Savonarola  on  the  one  hand,  and  to  Spini  on  the  other,  as 
not  to  incur  suspicion.  Suspicion  roused  in  the  popular  party 
might  be  fatal  to  his  reputation  and  ostensible  position  in 
Florence:  suspicion  roused  in  Dolfo  Spini  might  be  as  dis¬ 
agreeable  in  its  effects  as  the  hatred  of  a  fierce  dog  not  to  be 
chained. 

If  Tito  went  forthwith  to  the  monastery  to  warn  Savonarola 
before  the  monks  went  to  rest,  his  warning  would  follow  so 
closely  on  his  delivery  of  the  forged  letters  that  he  could  not 
escape  unfavorable  surmises.  He  could  not  warn  Spini  at 
onoe  without  telling  him  the  true  reason,  since  he  could  not 
immediately  allege  the  discovery  that  Savonarola  had  changed 


CHECK. 


29 


fiis  purpose  ;  and  he  knew  Spini  well  enough  to  know  that  his 
understanding  would  discern  nothing  but  that  Tito  had  “  turned 
round  ”  and  frustrated  the  plot.  On  the  other  hand,  by  defer¬ 
ring  his  warning  to  Savonarola  until  the  morning,  he  would  be 
almost  sure  to  lose  the  opportunity  of  warning  Spini  that  the 
Frate  had  changed  his  mind ;  and  the  band  of  Compagnacci 
would  come  back  in  all  the  rage  of  disappointment.  This  last, 
however,  was  the  risk  he  chose,  trusting  to  his  power  of  sooth¬ 
ing  Spini  by  assuring  him  that  the  failure  was  due  only  to  the 
Frate’s  caution. 

Tito  was  annoyed.  If  he  had  had  to  smile  it  would  have 
been  an  unusual  effort  to  him.  He  was  determined  not  to 
encounter  Eomola  again,  and  he  did  not  go  home  that  night. 

She  watched  through  the  night,  and  never  took  off  her 
clothes.  She  heard  the  rain  become  heavier  and  heavier. 
She  liked  to  hear  the  rain :  the  stormy  heavens  seemed  a  safe¬ 
guard  against  men’s  devices,  compelling  them  to  inaction. 
And  Eomola’s  mind  was  again  assailed,  not  only  by  the  ut¬ 
most  doubt  of  her  husband,  but  by  doubt  as  to  her  own  con¬ 
duct.  What  lie  might  he  not  have  told  her  ?  What  project 
might  he  not  have,  of  which  she  was  still  ignorant  ?  Every 
one  who  trusted  Tito  was  in  danger ;  it  was  useless  to  try  and 
persuade  herself  of  the  contrary.  And  was  not  she  selfishly 
listening  to  the  promptings  of  her  own  pride,  when  she  shrank 
from  warning  men  against  him  ?  “  If  her  husband  was  a 

malefactor,  her  place  was  in  the  prison  by  his  side  ”  —  that 
might  be ;  she  was  contented  to  fulfil  that  claim.  But  was 
she,  a  wife,  to  allow  a  husband  to  inflict  the  injuries  that 
would  make  him  a  malefactor,  when  it  might  be  in  her  power 
to  prevent  them  ?  Prayer  seemed  impossible  to  her.  The 
activity  of  her  thought  excluded  a  mental  state  of  which  the 
essence  is  expectant  passivity. 

The  excitement  became  stronger  and  stronger.  Her  imagi¬ 
nation,  in  a  state  of  morbid  activity,  conjured  up  possible 
schemes  by  which,  after  all,  Tito  would  have  eluded  her  threat; 
and  towards  daybreak  the  rain  became  less  violent,  till  at  last 
it  ceased,  the  breeze  rose  again  and  dispersed  the  clouds,  and 
the  morning  fell  clear  on  all  the  objects  around  her.  It  made 


30 


KOMOLA. 


her  uneasiness  all  the  less  endurable.  She  wrapped  her  man¬ 
tle  round  her,  and  ran  up  to  the  loggia,  as  if  there  could  be 
anything  in  the  wide  landscape  that  might  determine  her 
action  :  as  if  there  could  be  anything  but  roofs  hiding  the  line 
of  street  along  which  Savonarola  might  be  walking  towards 
betrayal. 

If  she  went  to  her  godfather,  might  she  not  induce  him, 
without  any  specific  revelation,  to  take  measures  for  prevent¬ 
ing  Fra  Girolamo  from  passing  the  gates  ?  But  that  might 
be  too  late.  Eomola  thought,  with  new  distress,  that  she  had 
failed  to  learn  any  guiding  details  from  Tito,  and  it  was 
already  long  past  seven.  She  must  go  to  San  Marco :  there 
was  nothing  else  to  be  done. 

She  hurried  down  the  stairs,  she  went  out  into  the  street 
without  looking  at  her  sick  people,  and  walked  at  a  swift  pace 
along  the  Via  de’  Bardi  towards  the  Ponte  Vecchio.  She 
would  go  through  the  heart  of  the  city ;  it  was  the  most  direct 
road,  and,  besides,  in  the  great  piazza  there  was  a  chance  of 
encountering  her  husband,  w'ho,  by  some  possibility  to  which 
she  still  clung,  might  satisfy  her  of  the  Prate’s  safety,  and 
leave  no  need  for  her  to  go  to  San  Marco.  When  she  arrived 
in  front  of  the  Palazzo  Vecchio,  she  looked  eagerly  into  the 
pillared  court ;  then  her  eyes  swept  the  piazza ;  but  the  well- 
known  figure,  once  painted  in  her  heart  by  young  love,  and  now 
branded  there  by  eating  pain,  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  She 
hurried  straight  on  to  the  Piazza  del  Duomo.  It  was  already 
full  of  movement :  there  were  worshippers  passing  up  and 
down  the  marble  steps,  there  were  men  pausing  for  chat,  and 
there  were  market-people  carrying  their  burdens.  Between 
those  moving  figures  Eomola  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  husband. 
On  his  way  from  San  Marco  he  had  turned  into  Nello’s  shop, 
and  was  now  leaning  against  the  door-post.  As  Eomola 
approached  she  could  see  that  he  was  standing  and  talking, 
with  the  easiest  air  in  the  world,  holding  his  cap  in  his  hand, 
and  shaking  back  his  freshly  combed  hair.  The  contrast  of 
this  ease  with  the  bitter  anxieties  he  had  created  convulsed 
her  with  indignation  :  the  new  vision  of  his  hardness  height¬ 
ened  her  dread.  She  recognized  Cronaca  and  two  other  fre- 


COUNTER-CHECK. 


Bl 

quenters  of  San  Marco  standing  near  her  husband.  It  flashed 
through  her  mind  —  “I  will  compel  him  to  speak  before  those 
men.”  And  her  light  step  brought  her  close  upon  him  before 
he  had  time  to  move,  while  Cronaca  was  saying,  “  Here  comes 
Madonna  Romola.” 

A  slight  shock  passed  through  Tito’s  frame  as  he  felt  him¬ 
self  face  to  face  with  his  wife.  She  was  haggard  with  her 
anxious  watching,  but  there  was  a  flash  of  something  else  than 
anxiety  in  her  eyes  as  she  said  — 

“  Is  the  Frate  gone  beyond  the  gates  ?  ” 

“No,”  said  Tito,  feeling  completely  helpless  before  this 
woman,  and  needing  all  the  self-command  he  possessed  to 
preserve  a  countenance  in  which  there  should  seem  to  be 
nothing  stronger  than  surprise. 

“  And  you  are  certain  that  he  is  not  going  ?  ”  she  insisted. 

“  I  am  certain  that  he  is  not  going.” 

“  That  is  enough,”  said  Romola,  and  she  turned  up  the  steps, 
to  take  refuge  in  the  Duomo,  till  she  could  recover  from  her 
agitation. 

Tito  never  had  a  feeling  so  near  hatred  as  that  with  which 
his  eyes  followed  Romola  retreating  up  the  steps. 

There  were  present  not  only  genuine  followers  of  the  Frate, 
but  Ser  Ceccone,  the  notary,  who  at  that  time,  like  Tito  him¬ 
self,  was  secretly  an  agent  of  the  Mediceans. 

Ser  Francesco  di  Ser  Barone,  more  briefly  known  to  infamy 
as  Ser  Ceccone,  was  not  learned,  not  handsome,  not  successful, 
and  the  reverse  of  generous.  He  was  a  traitor  without  charm. 
It  followed  that  he  was  not  fond  of  Tito  Melema. 


CHAPTER  XLVIIL 

COUNTER-CHECK. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  Tito  returned  home. 
Romola,  seated  opposite  the  cabinet  in  her  narrow  room, 
copying  documents,  was  about  to  desist  from  her  work  be- 


32 


ROMOLA. 


cause  the  light  was  getting  dim,  whesi  her  husband  entered. 
He  had  come  straight  to  this  room  to  seek  her,  with  a  thor¬ 
oughly  defined  intention,  and  there  was  something  new  to 
Komola  in  his  manner  and  expression  as  he  looked  at  her 
silently  on  entering,  and,  without  taking  off  his  cap  and 
mantle,  leaned  one  elbow  on  the  cabinet,  and  stood  directly 
in  front  of  her. 

Eomola,  fully  assured  during  the  day  of  the  Frate’s  safety, 
was  feeling  the  reaction  of  some  penitence  for  the  access  ol 
distrust  and  indignation  which  had  impelled  her  to  address 
her  husband  publicly  on  a  matter  that  she  knew  he  wished 
to  be  private.  She  told  herself  that  she  had  probably  been 
wrong.  The  scheming  duplicity  which  she  had  heard  even 
her  godfather  allude  to  as  inseparable  from  party  tactics 
might  be  sufiicient  to  account  for  the  connection  with  Spini, 
without  the  supposition  that  Tito  had  ever  meant  to  furthej 
the  plot.  She  wanted  to  atone  for  her  impetuosity  by  confess 
ing  that  she  had  been  too  hasty,  and  for  some  hours  her  mind 
had  been  dwelling  on  the  possibility  that  this  confession  of 
hers  might  lead  to  other  frank  words  breaking  the  two  years’ 
silence  of  their  hearts.  G^he  silence  had  been  so  complete, 
that  Tito  was  ignorant  of  her  having  fled  from  him  and  come 
back  again;  they  had  never  approached  an  avowal  of  that 
past  which,  both  in  its  young  love  and  in  the  shock  that  shat¬ 
tered  the  love,  lay  locked  away  from  them  like  a  banquet-room 
where  death  had  once  broken  the  feast. 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  that  submission  in  her  glance 
which  belonged  to  her  state  of  self-reproof;  but  the  subtle 
change  in  his  face  and  manner  arrested  her  speech.  For  a  few 
moments  they  remained  silent,  looking  at  each  other. 

Tito  himself  felt  that  a  crisis  was  come  in  his  married  life. 
The  husband’s  determination  to  mastery,  which  lay  deep  be¬ 
low  all  blandness  and  beseechingness,  had  risen  permanently 
to  the  surface  now,  and  seemed  to  alter  his  face,  as  a  face  is 
altered  by  a  hidden  muscular  tension  with  which  a  man  is 
secretly  throttling  or  stamping  out  the  life  from  something 
feeble,  yet  dangerous. 

“  Eomola,”  he  began,  in  the  cool  liquid  tone  that  made  her 


COUNTER-CHECK. 


83 


shiver,  “it  is  time  that  we  should  understand  each  other.” 
He  paused. 

“  That  is  what  I  most  desire,  Tito,”  she  said,  faintly.  Her 
sweet  pale  face,  with  all  its  anger  gone  and  nothing  but  the 
timidity  of  self-doubt  in  it,  seemed  to  give  a  marked  predomi¬ 
nance  to  her  husband’s  dark  strength. 

“You  took  a  step  this  morning,”  Tito  went  on,  “which  you 
must  now  yourself  perceive  to  have  been  useless  —  which  ex¬ 
posed  you  to  remark  and  may  involve  me  in  serious  practical 
difficulties.” 

“  I  acknowledge  that  I  was  too  hasty ;  I  am  sorry  for  any 
injustice  I  may  have  done  you.”  Romola  spoke  these  words 
in  a  fuller  and  firmer  tone ;  Tito,  she  hoped,  would  look  less 
hard  when  she  had  expressed  her  regret,  and  then  she  could 
say  other  things. 

“I  wish  you  once  for  all  to  understand,”  he  said,  without 
any  change  of  voice,  “  that  such  collisions  are  incompatible 
with  our  position  as  husband  and  wife.  I  wish  you  to  reflect 
on  the  mode  in  which  you  were  led  to  that  step,  that  the 
process  may  not  be  repeated.” 

“That  depends  chiefly  on  you,  Tito,”  said  Romola,  taking 
fire  slightly.  It  was  not  at  all  what  she  had  thought  of  say¬ 
ing,  but  we  see  a  very  little  way  before  us  in  mutual  speech. 

“  You  would  say,  I  suppose,”  answered  Tito,  “  that  nothing 
is  to  occur  in  future  which  can  excite  your  unreasonable  sus¬ 
picions.  You  were  frank  enough  to  say  last  night  that  you 
have  no  belief  in  me.  I  am  not  surprised  at  any  exaggerated 
conclusion  you  may  draw  from  slight  premises,  but  I  wish  to 
point  out  to  you  what  is  likely  to  be  the  fruit  of  your  making 
such  exaggerated  conclusions  a  ground  for  interfering  in  af¬ 
fairs  of  which  you  are  ignorant.  Your  attention  is  thoroughly 
awake  to  what  I  am  saying  ?  ” 

He  paused  for  a  reply. 

“Yes,”  said  Romola,  flushing  in  irrepressible  resentment  at 
this  cold  tone  of  superiority. 

“Well,  then,  it  may  possibly  not  be  very  long  before  some 
other  chance  words  or  incidents  set  your  imagination  at  work 
devising  crimes  for  me,  and  you  may  perhaps  rush  to  the 


VOL  VI. 


84 


ROMOLA. 


Palazzo  Vecchio  to  alarm  the  Signoria  and  set  the  city  in  an 
uproar.  Shall  I  tell  you  what  may  be  the  result  ?  Not  simply 
the  disgrace  of  your  husband,  to  which  you  look  forward  with 
so  much  courage,  but  the  arrest  and  ruin  of  many  among  the 
chief  men  in  Florence,  including  Messer  Bernardo  del  Nero.” 

Tito  had  meditated  a  decisive  move,  and  he  had  made  it. 
The  flush  died  out  of  Romola’s  face,  and  her  very  lips  were 
pale  —  an  unusual  effect  with  her,  for  she  was  little  subject  to 
fear.  Tito  perceived  his  success. 

“You  would  perhaps  flatter  yourself,”  he  went  on,  “that 
you  were  performing  a  heroic  deed  of  deliverance ;  you  might 
as  well  try  to  turn  locks  with  fine  words  as  apply  such  notions 
to  the  politics  of  Florence.  The  question  now  is,  not  whether 
you  can  have  any  belief  in  me,  but  whether,  now  you  have 
been  warned,  you  will  dare  to  rush,  like  a  blind  man  with 
a  torch  in  his  hand,  among  intricate  affairs  of  which  you 
know  nothing.” 

Romola  felt  as  if  her  mind  were  held  in  a  vice  by  Tito’s : 
the  possibilities  he  had  indicated  were  rising  before  her  with 
terrible  clearness. 

“I  am  too  rash,”  she  said.  “  I  will  try  not  to  be  rash.” 

“Remember,”  said  Tito,  with  unsparing  insistence,  “that 
your  act  of  distrust  towards  me  this  morning  might,  for  aught 
you  knew,  have  had  more  fatal  effects  than  that  sacrifice  of 
your  husband  which  you  have  learned  to  contemplate  without 
flinching.” 

“  Tito,  it  is  not  so,”  Romola  burst  forth  in  a  pleading  tone, 
rising  and  going  nearer  to  him,  with  a  despe'rate  resolution  to 
speak  out.  “  It  is  false  that  I  would  willingly  sacrifice  you. 
It  has  been  the  greatest  effort  of  my  life  to  cling  to  you.  I 
went  away  in  my  anger  two  years  ago,  and  I  came  back  again 
because  I  was  more  bound  to  you  than  to  anything  else  on 
earth.  But  it  is  useless.  You  shut  me  out  from  your  mind. 
You  affect  to  think  of  me  as  a  being  too  unreasonable  to  share 
in  the  knowledge  of  your  affairs.  You  will  be  open  with  me 
about  nothing.” 

She  looked  like  his  good  angel  pleading  with  him,  as  she 
bent  her  face  towards  him  with  dilated  eyes,  and  laid  her  hand 


COUNTER-CHECK. 


35 


upon  his  arm.  But  Bomola’s  touch  and  glance  no  longer 
stirred  any  fibre  of  tenderness  in  her  husband.  The  good- 
humored,  tolerant  Tito,  incapable  of  hatred,  incapable  almost 
of  impatience,  disposed  always  to  be  gentle  towards  the  rest 
of  the  world,  felt  himself  becoming  strangely  hard  towards 
this  wife  whose  presence  had  once  been  the  strongest  infiuence 
he  had  known.  With  all  his  softness  of  disposition,  he  had  a 
masculine  effectiveness  of  intellect  and  purpose  which,  like 
sharpness  of  edge,  is  itself  an  energy,  working  its  way  without 
any  strong  momentum.  Bomola  had  an  energy  of  her  own 
which  thwarted  his,  and  no  man,  who  is  not  exceptionally 
feeble,  will  endure  being  thwarted  by  his  wife.  Marriage 
must  be  a  relation  either  of  sympathy  or  of  conquest. 

No  emotion  darted  across  his  face  as  he  heard  Romola  for 
the  first  time  speak  of  having  gone  away  from  him.  His  lips 
only  looked  a  little  harder  as  he  smiled  slightly  and  said  — 

“My  Romola,  when  certain  conditions  are  ascertained,  we 
must  make  up  onr  minds  to  them.  No  amount  of  wishing  will 
fill  the  Arno,  as  your  people  say,  or  turn  a  plum  into  an  orange. 
I  have  not  observed  even  that  prayers  have  much  ef&cacy  that 
way.  You  are  so  constituted  as  to  have  certain  strong  impres¬ 
sions  inaccessible  to  reason :  I  cannot  share  those  impressions, 
and  you  have  withdrawn  all  trust  from  me  in  consequence. 
You  have  changed  towards  me  ;  it  has  followed  that  I  have 
changed  towards  you.  It  is  useless  to  take  any  retrospect. 
We  have  simply  to  adapt  ourselves  to  altered  conditions.” 

“  Tito,  it  would  not  be  useless  for  us  to  speak  openly,”  said 
Romola,  with  the  sort  of  exasperation  that  comes  from  using 
living  muscle  against  some  lifeless  insurmountable  resistance. 
“  It  was  the  sense  of  deception  in  you  that  changed  me,  and 
that  has  kept  us  apart.  And  it  is  not  true  that  I  changed 
first.  You  changed  towards  me  the  night  you  first  wore  that 
chain-armor.  You  had  some  secret  from  me  —  it  was  about 
that  old  man  —  and  I  saw  him  again  yesterday.  Tito,”  she 
went  on,  in  a  tone  of  agonized  entreaty,  “  if  you  would  once 
tell  me  everything,  let  it  be  what  it  may  —  I  would  not  mind 
pain  —  that  there  might  be  no  wall  between  us  !  Is  it  not 
possible  that  we  could  begin  a  new  life  ?  ” 


36 


ROMOLA. 


This  time  there  was  a  flash  of  emotion  across  Tito’s  face, 
lie  stood  perfectly  still ;  but  the  flash  seemed  to  have  whitened 
him.  He  took  no  notice  of  Romola’s  appeal,  but  after  a  mo¬ 
ment’s  pause,  said  quietly  — 

“  Your  impetuosity  about  trifles,  E-omola,  has  a  freezing  in¬ 
fluence  that  would  cool  the  baths  of  Nero.”  At  these  cutting 
words,  Eomola  shrank  and  drew  herself  up  into  her  usual  self- 
sustained  attitude.  Tito  went  on.  “If  by  Hhat  old  man’ 
you  mean  the  mad  Jacopo  di  Nola  who  attempted  my  life  and 
made  a  strange  accusation  against  me,  of  which  I  told  you 
nothing  because  it  would  have  alarmed  you  to  no  purpose,  he, 
poor  wretch,  has  died  in  prison.  I  saw  his  name  in  the  list  of 
dead.” 

“  I  know  nothing  about  his  accusation,”  said  Romola.  “  But 
I  know  he  is  the  man  whom  I  saw  with  the  rope  round  his 
neck  in  the  Duomo — the  man  whose  portrait  Piero  di  Cosimo 
painted,  grasping  your  arm  as  he  saw  him  grasp  it  the  day  the 
French  entered,  the  day  you  first  wore  the  armor.” 

“And  where  is  he  now,  pray  ?  ”  said  Tito,  still  pale,  but 
governing  himself. 

“  He  was  lying  lifeless  in  the  street  from  starvation,”  said 
Romola.  “I  revived  him  with  bread  and  wine.  I  brought 
him  to  our  door,  but  he  refused  to  come  in.  Then  I  gave  him 
some  money,  and  he  went  away  without  telling  me  anything. 
But  he  had  found  out  that  I  was  your  wife.  Who  is  he  ?  ” 

“  A  man,  half  mad,  half  imbecile,  who  was  once  my  father’s 
servant  in  Greece,  and  who  has  a  rancorous  hatred  towards  me 
because  I  got  him  dismissed  for  theft.  Now  you  have  the 
whole  mystery,  and  the  further  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  I 
am  again  in  danger  of  assassination.  The  fact  of  my  wearing 
the  armor,  about  which  you  seem  to  have  thought  so  much, 
must  have  led  you  to  infer  that  I  was  in  danger  from  this 
man.  Was  that  the  reason  you  chose  to  cultivate  his  acquaint¬ 
ance  and  invite  him  into  the  house  ?  ” 

Romola  was  mute.  To  speak  was  only  like  rushing  with 
bare  breast  against  a  shield. 

Tito  moved  from  his  leaning  posture,  slowly  took  off  his  cap 
and  mantle,  and  pushed  back  his  hair.  He  was  collecting  him- 


COUNTER-CHECK. 


S7 


self  for  some  final  words.  And  Romola  stood  upright  looking 
at  him  as  she  might  have  looked  at  some  on-coming  deadly 
force,  to  be  met  only  by  silent  endurance. 

“We  need  not  refer  to  these  matters  again,  Romola,”  he 
said,  precisely  in  the  same  tone  as  that  in  which  he  had 
spoken  at  first.  “  It  is  enough  if  you  will  remember  that  the 
next  time  your  generous  ardor  leads  you  to  interfere  in  politi¬ 
cal  affairs,  you  are  likely,  not  to  save  any  one  from  danger, 
but  to  be  raising  scaffolds  and  setting  houses  on  fire.  You  are 
not  yet  a  sufficiently  ardent  Piagnone  to  believe  that  Messer 
Bernardo  del  Nero  is  the  prince  of  darkness,  and  Messer  Fran¬ 
cesco  Valori  the  archangel  Michael.  I  think  I  need  demand 
no  promise  from  you  ?  ” 

“  I  have  understood  you  too  well,  Tito.” 

“  It  is  enough,”  he  said,  leaving  the  room. 

Romola  turned  round  with  despair  in  her  face  and  sank  into 
her  seat.  “  0  God,  I  have  tried — I  cannot  help  it.  We  shall 
always  be  divided.”  Those  words  passed  silently  through  her 
mind.  “  Unless,”  she  said  aloud,  as  if  some  sudden  vision  had 
startled  her  into  speech  —  “unless  misery  should  come  and 
join  us  !  ” 

Tito,  too,  had  a  new  thought  in  his  mind  after  he  had  closed 
the  door  behind  him.  With  the  project  of  leaving  Florence  as 
soon  as  his  life  there  had  become  a  high  enough  stepping-stone 
to  a  life  elsewhere,  perhaps  at  Rome  or  Milan,  there  was  now 
for  the  first  time  associated  a  desire  to  be  free  from  Romola, 
and  to  leave  her  behind  him.  She  had  ceased  to  belong  to  the 
desirable  furniture  of  his  life  :  there  was  no  possibility  of  an 
easy  relation  between  them  without  genuineness  on  his  part. 
Genuineness  implied  confession  of  the  past,  and  confession 
involved  a  change  of  purpose.  But  Tito  had  as  little  bent 
that  way  as  a  leopard  has  to  lap  milk  when  its  teeth  are 
grown.  From  all  relations  that  were  not  easy  and  agreeable, 
we  know  that  Tito  shrank :  why  should  he  cling  to  them  ? 

And  Romola  had  made  his  relations  difficult  with  others 
besides  herself.  He  had  had  a  troublesome  interview  with 
Dolfo  Spini,  who  had  come  back  in  a  rage  after  an  ineffectual 
soaking  with  rain  and  long  waiting  in  ambush,  and  that  scene 


88 


ROMOLA. 


between  Eomola  and  himself  at  Nello’s  door,  once  reported  in 
Spini’s  ear,  might  be  a  seed  of  something  more  unmanageable 
than  suspicion.  But  now,  at  least,  he  believed  that  he  had 
mastered  Eomola  by  a  terror  which  appealed  to  the  strongest 
forces  of  her  nature.  He  had  alarmed  her  affection  and  her 
conscience  by  the  shadowy  image  of  consequences ;  he  had 
arrested  her  intellect  by  hanging  before  it  the  idea  of  a  hope¬ 
less  complexity  in  affairs  which  defied  any  moral  judgment. 

Yet  Tito  was  not  at  ease.  The  world  was  not  yet  quite 
cushioned  with  velvet,  and,  if  it  had  been,  he  could  not  have 
abandoned  himself  to  that  softness  with  thorough  enjoyment ; 
for  before  he  went  out  again  this  evening  he  put  on  his  coat 
of  chain-armor. 


CHAPTEE  XLIX. 

THE  PYRAMID  OF  VANITIES. 

The  wintry  days  passed  for  Eomola  as  the  white  ships  pass 
one  who  is  standing  lonely  on  the  shore  —  passing  in  silence 
and  sameness,  yet  each  bearing  a  hidden  burden  of  coming 
change.  Tito’s  hint  had  mingled  so  much  dread  with  her 
interest  in  the  progress  of  public  affairs  that  she  had  begun 
to  court  ignorance  rather  than  knowledge.  The  threatening 
German  Emperor  was  gone  again ;  and,  in  other  ways  besides, 
the  position  of  Florence  was  alleviated ;  but  so  much  dis¬ 
tress  remained  that  Eomola’s  active  duties  were  hardly  dimin¬ 
ished,  and  in  these,  as  usual,  her  mind  found  a  refuge  from  its 
doubt. 

She  dared  not  rejoice  that  the  relief  which  had  come  in 
extremity  and  had  appeared  to'justify  the  policy  of  the  Frate’s 
party  was  making  that  party  so  triumphant,  that  Francesco 
Valori,  hot-tempered  chieftain  of  the  Piagnoni,  had  been  elected 
Gonfaloniere  at  the  beginning  of  the  year,  and  was  making 
haste  to  have  as  much  of  his  own  liberal  way  as  possible  dur¬ 
ing  his  two  months  of  nower.  That  seemed  for  the  moment 


THE  PYRAMID  OF  VANITIES. 


39 


like  a  strengthening  of  the  party  most  attached  to  freedom, 
and  a  reinforcement  of  protection  to  Savonarola ;  but  Rornola 
was  now  alive  to  every  suggestion  likely  to  deepen  her  fore^ 
boding,  that  whatever  the  present  might  be,  it  was  only  an 
unconscious  brooding  over  the  mixed  germs  of  Change  which 
might  any  day  become  tragic.  And  already  by  Carnival  time, 
a  little  after  mid-February,  her  presentiment  was  confirmed  by 
the  signs  of  a  very  decided  change  ;  the  Mediceans  had  ceased 
to  be  passive,  and  were  openly  exerting  themselves  to  procure 
the  election  of  Bernardo  del  Nero  as  the  new  Gonfaloniere. 

On  the  last  day  of  the  Carnival,  between  ten  and  eleven  in 
the  morning,  Eomola  walked  out,  according  to  promise,  towards 
the  Corso  degli  Albizzi,  to  fetch  her  cousin  Brigida,  that  they 
might  both  be  ready  to  start  from  the  Via  de’  Bardi  early  in 
the  afternoon,  and  take  their  places  at  a  window  which  Tito 
had  had  reserved  for  them  in  the  Piazza  della  Signoria,  where 
there  was  to  be  a  scene  of  so  new  and  striking  a  sort,  that  all 
Florentine  eyes  must  desire  to  see  it.  For  the  Piagnoni  were 
having  their  own  way  thoroughly  about  the  mode  of  keeping 
the  Carnival.  In  vain  Dolfo  Spini  and  his  companions  had 
struggled  to  get  up  the  dear  old  masks  and  practical  jokes, 
well  spiced  with  indecency.  Such  things  were  not  to  be  in  a 
city  where  Christ  had  been  declared  king. 

Romola  set  out  in  that  languid  state  of  mind  with  which 
every  one  enters  on  a  long  day  of  sight-seeing  purely  for  the 
sake  of  gratifying  a  child,  or  some  dear  childish  friend.  The 
day  was  certainly  an  epoch  in  carnival-keeping ;  but  this  phase 
of  reform  had  not  touched  her  enthusiasm  :  and  she  did  not 
know  that  it  was  an  epoch  in  her  own  life  when  another  lot 
would  begin  to  be  no  longer  secretly  but  visibly  entwined  with 
her  own. 

She  chose  to  go  through  the  great  piazza  that  she  might 
take  a  first  survey  of  the  unparalleled  sight  there  while  she 
was  still  alone.  Entering  it  from  the  south,  she  saw  some¬ 
thing  monstrous  and  many-colored  in  the  shape  of  a  pyramid, 
or,  rather,  like  a  huge  fir-tree,  sixty  feet  high,  with  shelves  on 
the  branches,  widening  and  widening  towards  the  base  till 
they  reached  a  circumference  of  eighty  yards.  The  piazza 


40 


KOMOLA. 


was  full  of  life  :  slight  young  figures,  in  white  garments,  with 
olive  wreaths  on  their  heads,  were  moving  to  and  fro  about 
the  base  of  the  pyramidal  tree,  carrying  baskets  full  of  bright- 
colored  things  ;  and  maturer  forms,  some  in  the  monastic  frock, 
some  in  the  loose  tunics  and  dark-red  caps  of  artists,  were 
helping  and  examining,  or  else  retreating  to  various  points  in 
the  distance  to  survey  the  wondrous  whole :  while  a  consider¬ 
able  group,  among  whom  Eomola  recognized  Piero  di  Cosimo, 
standing  on  the  marble  steps  of  Orgagna’s  Loggia,  seemed  to 
be  keeping  aloof  in  discontent  and  scorn. 

Approaching  nearer,  she  paused  to  look  at  the  multifarious 
objects  ranged  in  gradation  from  the  base  to  the  summit  of 
the  pyramid.  There  were  tapestries  and  brocades  of  immod¬ 
est  design,  pictures  and  sculptures  held  too  likely  to  incite  to 
vice ;  there  were  boards  and  tables  for  all  sorts  of  games, 
playing-cards  along  with  the  blocks  for  printing  them,  dice, 
and  other  apparatus  for  gambling ;  there  were  worldly  music- 
books,  and  musical  instruments  in  all  the  pretty  varieties  of 
lute,  drum,  cymbal,  and  trumpet ;  there  were  masks  and  mas- 
querading-dresses  used  in  the  old  Carnival  shows  ;  there  were 
handsome  copies  of  Ovid,  Boccaccio,  Petrarca,  Pulci,  and  other 
books  of  a  vain  or  impure  sort ;  there  were  all  the  implements 
of  feminine  vanity  —  rouge-pots,  false  hair,  mirrors,  perfumes, 
powders,  and  transparent  veils  intended  to  provoke  inquisitive 
glances :  lastly,  at  the  very  summit,  there  was  the  unflattering 
effigy  of  a  probably  mythical  Venetian  merchant,  who  was 
understood  to  have  offered  a  heavy  sum  for  this  collection 
of  marketable  abominations,  and,  soaring  above  him  in  sur¬ 
passing  ugliness,  the  symbolic  figure  of  the  old  debauched 
Carnival. 

This  was  the  preparation  for  a  new  sort  of  bonfire  —  the 
Burning  of  Vanities.  Hidden  in  the  interior  of  the  pyramid 
was  a  plentiful  store  of  dry  fuel  and  gunpowder  ;  and  on  this 
last  day  of  the  festival,  at  evening,  the  pile  of  vanities  was  to 
be  set  ablaze  to  the  sound  of  trumpets,  and  the  ugly  old  Car¬ 
nival  was  to  tumble  into  the  flames  amid  the  songs  of  reform¬ 
ing  triumph. 

This  crowning  act  of  the  new  festivities  could  hardly  have 


THE  PYRAMID  OF  VANITIES. 


41 


been  prepared  but  for  a  peculiar  organization  which  had  been 
started  by  Savonarola  two  years  before.  The  mass  of  the 
Florentine  boyhood  and  youth  was  no  longer  left  to  its  own 
genial  promptings  towards  street  mischief  and  crude  dissolute¬ 
ness.  Under  the  training  of  Fra  Domenico,  a  sort  of  lieuten¬ 
ant  to  Savonarola,  lads  and  striplings,  the  hope  of  Florence, 
were  to  have  none  but  pure  words  on  their  lips,  were  to  have 
a  zeal  for  Unseen  Good  that  should  put  to  shame  the  luke¬ 
warmness  of  their  elders,  and  were  to  know  no  pleasures  save 
of  an  angelic  sort  —  singing  divine  praises  and  walking  in 
white  robes.  It  was  for  them  that  the  ranges  of  seats  had 
been  raised  high  against  the  walls  of  the  Duomo ;  and  they 
had  been  used  to  hear  Savonarola  appeal  to  them  as  the  future 
glory  of  a  city  specially  appointed  to  do  the  work  of  God. 

These  fresh-cheeked  troops  were  the  chief  agents  in  the 
regenerated  merriment  of  the  new  Carnival,  which  was  a  sort 
of  sacred  parody  of  the  old.  Had  there  been  bonfires  in  the 
old  time  ?  There  was  to  be  a  bonfire  now,  consuming  impurity 
from  off  the  earth.  Had  there  been  symbolic  processions  ? 
There  were  to  be  processions  now,  but  the  symbols  were  to  be 
white  robes  and  red  crosses  and  olive  wreaths — emblems  of 
peace  and  innocent  gladness  —  and  the  banners  and  images 
held  aloft  were  to  tell  the  triumphs  of  goodness.  Had  there 
been  dancing  in  a  ring  under  the  open  sky  of  the  piazza,  to 
the  sound  of  choral  voices  chanting  loose  songs  ?  There  was 
to  be  dancing  in  a  ring  now,  but  dancing  of  monks  and  laity 
in  fraternal  love  and  divine  joy,  and  the  music  was  to  be  the 
music  of  hymns.  As  for  the  collections  from  street  passen¬ 
gers,  they  were  to  be  greater  than  ever  —  not  for  gross  and 
superfluous  suppers,  but  —  for  the  benefit  of  the  hungry  and 
needy ;  and,  besides,  there  was  the  collecting  of  the  Anathema, 
or  the  Vanities  to  be  laid  on  the  great  pyramidal  bonfire. 

Troops  of  young  inquisitors  went  from  house  to  house  on 
this  exciting  business  of  asking  that  the  Anathema  should  be 
given  up  to  them.  Perhaps,  after  the  more  avowed  vanities 
had  been  surrendered.  Madonna,  at  the  head  of  the  household, 
had  still  certain  little  reddened  balls  brought  from  the  Levant, 
intended  to  produce  on  a  sallow  cheek  a  sudden  bloom  of  the 


KOMOLA. 


r2 

most  ingenuous  falsity  ?  If  so,  let  her  bring  them  down  and 
cast  them  into  the  basket  of  doom.  Or,  perhaps,  she  had 
ringlets  and  coils  of  “  dead  hair  ”  ?  —  if  so,  let  her  bring  them 
to  the  street-door,  not  on  her  head,  but  in  her  hands,  and  pub¬ 
licly  renounce  the  Anathema  which  hid  the  respectable  signs 
of  age  under  a  ghastly  mockery  of  youth.  And,  in  reward, 
she  would  hear  fresh  young  voices  pronounce  a  blessing  on  her 
and  her  house. 

The  beardless  inquisitors,  organized  into  little  regiments, 
doubtless  took  to  their  w'ork  very  willingly.  To  coerce  people 
by  shame,  or  other  spiritual  pelting,  into  the  giving  up  of 
things  it  will  probably  vex  them  to  part  with,  is  a  form  of 
piety  to  which  the  boyish  mind  is  most  readily  converted ;  and 
if  some  obstinately  wicked  men  got  enraged  and  threatened 
the  whip  or  the  cudgel,  this  also  was  exciting.  Savonarola 
himself  evidently  felt  about  the  training  of  these  boys  the 
difficulty  weighing  on  all  minds  with  noble  yearnings  towards 
great  ends,  yet  with  that  imperfect  perception  of  means  which 
forces  a  resort  to  some  supernatural  constraining  influence  as 
the  only  sure  hope.  The  Florentine  youth  had  had  very  evil 
habits  and  foul  tongues :  it  seemed  at  flrst  an  unmixed  bless¬ 
ing  when  they  were  got  to  shout  “  Viva  Gesu  f  ”  But  Savon¬ 
arola  was  forced  at  last  to  say  from  the  pulpit,  “  There  is  a 
little  too  much  shouting  of  ‘  Viva  Gesu!’  This  constant 
utterance  of  sacred  words  brings  them  into  contempt.  Let 
me  have  no  more  of  that  shouting  till  the  next  Festa.” 

Nevertheless,  as  the  long  stream  of  white-robed  youthful¬ 
ness,  with  its  little  red  crosses  and  olive  wreaths,  had  gone  to 
the  Duomo  at  dawn  this  morning  to  receive  the  communion 
from  the  hands  of  Savonarola,  it  was  a  sight  of  beauty ;  and, 
doubtless,  many  of  those  young  souls  were  laying  up  memo¬ 
ries  of  hope  and  awe  that  might  save  them  from  ever  resting 
in  a  merely  vulgar  view  of  their  work  as  men  and  citizens. 
There  is  no  kind  of  conscious  obedience  that  is  not  an  advance 
on  lawlessness,  and  these  boys  became  the  generation  of  men 
who  fought  greatly  and  endured  greatly  in  the  last  struggle  of 
their  Eepublic,  Now,  in  the  intermediate  hours  between  the 
early  communion  and  dinner-time,  they  were  making  their 


THE  PYRAMID  OF  VANITIES. 


iast  perambulations  to  collect  alms  and  vanities,  and  this  was 
why  Romola  saw  the  slim  white  figures  moving  to  and  fro 
about  the  base  of  the  great  pyramid. 

“  What  think  you  of  this  folly.  Madonna  Romola  ?  ”  said  a 
brusque  voice  close  to  her  ear.  “Your  Piagnoni  will  make 
V inferno  a  pleasant  prospect  to  us,  if  they  are  to  carry  things 
their  own  way  on  earth.  It ’s  enough  to  fetch  a  cudgel  over 
the  mountains  to  see  painters,  like  Lorenzo  di  Credi  and 
young  Baccio  there,  helping  to  burn  color  out  of  life  in  this 
fashion.” 

«  My  good  Piero,”  said  Romola,  looking  up  and  smiling  at 
the  grim  man,  “  even  you  must  be  glad  to  see  some  of  these 
things  burnt.  Look  at  those  gewgaws  and  wigs  and  rouge- 
pots  :  I  have  heard  you  talk  as  indignantly  against  those 
things  as  Fra  Girolamo  himself.” 

“  What  then  ?  ”  said  Piero,  turning  round  on  her  sharply, 
never  said  a  woman  should  make  a  black  patch  of  herself 
against  the  background.  Va  !  Madonna  Antigone,  it ’s  a 
shame  for  a  woman  with  your  hair  and  shoulders  to  run  into 
such  nonsense  —  leave  it  to  women  who  are  not  worth  paint¬ 
ing.  What !  the  most  holy  Virgin  herself  has  always  been 
dressed  well ;  that ’s  the  doctrine  of  the  Church ;  —  talk  of 
heresy,  indeed  !  And  I  should  like  to  know  what  the  excel¬ 
lent  Messer  Bardo  would  have  said  to  the  burning  of  the 
divine  poets  by  these  Frati,  who  are  no  better  an  imitation 
of  men  than  if  they  were  onions  with  the  bulbs  uppermost. 
Look  at  that  Petrarca  sticking  up  beside  a  rouge-pot ;  do  the 
idiots  pretend  that  the  heavenly  Laura  was  a  painted  harri 
dan  ?  And  Boccaccio,  now :  do  you  mean  to  say,  Madonna 
Romola  —  you  who  are  fit  to  be  a  model  for  a  wise  Saint 
Catherine  of  Egypt  —  do  you  mean  to  say  you  have  never 
read  the  stories  of  the  immortal  Messer  Giovanni  ?  ” 

“  It  is  true  I  have  read  them,  Piero,”  said  Romola.  “'Some 
of  them  a  great  many  times  over,  when  I  was  a  little  girl.  1 
used  to  get  the  book  down  when  my  father  was  asleep,  so  that 
I  could  read  to  myself.” 

“  Ehhene  ?  ”  said  Piero,  in  a  fiercely  challenging  tone. 

“  There  are  some  things  in  them  I  do  not  want  ever  to  for- 


44 


ROMOLA. 


get/’  said  Romola ;  but  you  must  confess,  Piero,  that  a  great 
many  of  those  stories  are  only  about  low  deceit  for  the  lowest 
ends.  Men  do  not  want  books  to  make  them  think  lightly  of 
vice,  as  if  life  were  a  vulgar  joke.  And  I  cannot  blame  Fra 
Girolamo  for  teaching  that  we  owe  our  time  to  something 
better.” 

“Yes,  yes,  it’s  very  well  to  say  so  now  you’ve  read  them,” 
said  Piero,  bitterly,  turning  on  his  heel  and  walking  away 
from  her. 

Eomola,  too,  walked  on,  smiling  at.  Piero’s  innuendo,  with  a 
sort  of  tenderness  towards  the  old  painter’s  anger,  because  she 
knew  that  her  father  would  have  felt  something  like  it.  For 
herself,  she  was  conscious  of  no  inward  collision  with  the 
strict  and  sombre  view  of  pleasure  which  tended  to  repress 
poetry  in  the  attempt  to  repress  vice.  Sorrow  and  joy  have 
each  their  peculiar  narrowness ;  and  a  religious  enthusiasm 
like  Savonarola’s  which  ultimately  blesses  mankind  by  giving 
the  soul  a  strong  propulsion  towards  sympathy  with  pain, 
indignation  against  wrong,  and  the  subjugation  of  sensual 
desire,  must  always  incur  the  reproach  of  a  great  negation. 
Eomola’s  life  had  given  her  an  afl&nity  for  sadness  which 
inevitably  made  her  unjust  towards  merriment.  That  subtle 
result  of  culture  which  we  call  Taste  was  subdued  by  the  need 
for  deeper  motive ;  just  as  the  nicer  demands  of  the  palate  are 
annihilated  by  urgent  hunger.  Moving  habitually  among 
scenes  of  suffering,  and  carrying  woman’s  heaviest  disappoint¬ 
ment  in  her  heart,  the  severity  which  allied  itself  with  self- 
renouncing  beneficent  strength  had  no  dissonance  for  her. 

♦ - 

CHAPTER  L. 

TESSA  ABROAD  AND  AT  HOME. 

Another  figure  easily  recognized  by  us — a  figure  not  clad 
in  black,  but  in  the  old  red,  green,  and  white  —  was  approach- 
ijig  the  oiazza  that  morning  to  see  the  Carnival.  She  came 


TESSA  ABROAD  AND  AT  HOME, 


45 


from  an  opposite  point,  for  Tessa  no  longer  lived  on  the  hill 
of  San  Giorgio.  After  what  had  happened  there  with  Baldas- 
sarre,  Tito  had  thought  it  best  for  that  and  other  reasons  to 
find  her  a  new  home,  but  still  in  a  quiet  airy  quarter,  in  a 
house  bordering  on  the  wide  garden  grounds  north  of  the 
Porta  Santa  Croce. 

Tessa  was  not  come  out  sight-seeing  without  special  leave. 
Tito  had  been  with  her  the  evening  before,  and  she  had  kept 
back  the  entreaty  which  she  felt  to  be  swelling  her  heart  and 
throat  until  she  saw  him  in  a  state  of  radiant  ease,  with  one 
arm  round  the  sturdy  Lillo,  and  the  other  resting  gently  on 
her  own  shoulder  as  she  tried  to  make  the  tiny  Ninna  steady 
on  her  legs.  She  was  sure  then  that  the  weariness  with  which 
he  had  come  in  and  flung  himself  into  his  chair  had  quite 
melted  away  from  his  brow  and  lips.  Tessa  had  not  been 
slow  at  learning  a  few  small  stratagems  by  which  she  might 
avoid  vexing  Naldo  and  yet  have  a  little  of  her  own  way.  She 
could  read  nothing  else,  but  she  had  learned  to  read  a  good 
deal  in  her  husband’s  face. 

And  certainly  the  charm  of  that  bright,  gentle-humored  Tito 
who  woke  up  under  the  Loggia  de’  Cerchi  on  a  Lenten  morning 
\^five  years  before,  not  having  yet  given  any  hostages  to  deceit, 
never  returned  so  nearly  as  in  the  person  of  Naldo,  seated  in 
that  straight-backed,  carved  arm-chair  which  he  had  provided 
for  his  comfort  when  he  came  to  see  Tessa  and  the  children. 
Tito  himself  was  surprised  at  the  growing  sense  of  relief 
which  he  felt  in  these  moments.  No  guile  was  needed  towards 
Tessa :  she  was  too  ignorant  and  too  innocent  to  suspect  him 
of  anything.  And  the  little  voices  calling  him  “  Babbo  ”  were 
very  sweet  in  his  ears  for  the  short  while  that  he  heard  them. 
When  he  thought  of  leaving  Florence,  he  never  thought  ol 
leaving  Tessa  and  the  little  ones  behind.  He  was  very  fond 
of  these  round-cheeked,  wide-eyed  human  things  that  clung 
about  him  and  knew  no  evil  of  him.  And  wherever  affection 
can  spring,  it  is  like  the  green  leaf  and  the  blossom  —  pure, 
and  breathing  purity,  whatever  soil  it  may  grow  in.  Poor 
Romola,  with  all  her  self-sacrificing  effort,  was  really  helping 
to  harden  Tito’s  nature  by  chilling  it  with  a  positive  dislike 


46 


ROMOLA. 


which  had  beforehand  seemed  impossible  in  him ;  but  Tessa 
kept  open  the  fountains  of  kindness. 

‘‘Ninna  is  very  good  without  me  now,”  began  Tessa,  feeling 
her  request  rising  very  high  in  her  throat,  and  letting  Ninna 
seat  herself  on  the  floor.  “  I  can  leave  her  with  Monna  Lisa 
any  time,  and  if  she  is  in  the  cradle  and  cries,  Lillo  is  as 
sensible  as  can  be  —  he  goes  and  thumps  Monna  Lisa.” 

Lillo,  whose  great  dark  eyes  looked  all  the  darker  because 
his  curls  were  of  a  light  brown  like  his  mother’s,  jumped  off 
Babbo’s  knee,  and  went  forthwith  to  attest  his  intelligence  by 
thumping  Monna  Lisa,  who  was  shaking  her  head  slowly  over 
her  spinning  at  the  other  end  of  the  room. 

“  A  wonderful  boy  !  ”  said  Tito,  laughing. 

“  Is  n’t  he  ?  ”  said  Tessa,  eagerly,  getting  a  little  closer  to 
him ;  “  and  I  might  go  and  see  the  Carnival  to-morrow,  just 
for  an  hour  or  two,  might  n’t  I  ?  ” 

“  Oh,  you  wicked  pigeon  !  ”  said  Tito,  pinching  her  cheek ; 
“  those  are  your  longings,  are  they  ?  What  have  you  to  do 
with  carnivals  now  you  are  an  old  woman  with  two  children  ?  ” 
“But  old  women  like  to  see  things,”  said  Tessa,  her  lower 
lip  hanging  a  little.  “  Monna  Lisa  said  she  should  like  to  go, 
only  she ’s  so  deaf  she  can’t  hear  what  is  behind  her,  and  she 
thinks  we  could  n’t  take  care  of  both  the  children,” 

“No,  indeed,  Tessa,”  said  Tito,  looking  rather  grave,  “you 
must  not  think  of  taking  the  children  into  the  crowded  streets, 
else  I  shall  be  angry.” 

“  But  I  have  never  been  into  the  piazza  without  leave,”  said 
Tessa,  in  a  frightened,  pleading  tone,  “since  the  Holy  Satur¬ 
day,  and  I  think  Nofri  is  dead,  for  you  know  the  poor  madre 
died ;  and  I  shall  never  forget  the  Carnival  I  saw  once ;  it  was 
so  pretty  —  all  roses  and  a  king  and  queen  under  them  —  and 
singing.  I  liked  it  better  than  the  San  Giovanni.” 

“  But  there ’s  nothing  like  that  now,  my  Tessa.  They  are 
going  to  make  a  bonfire  in  the  piazza  —  that ’s  all.  But  I 
cannot  let  you  go  out  by  yourself  in  the  evening.” 

“  Oh  no,  no  !  I  don’t  want  to  go  in  the  evening.  I  only 
want  to  go  and  see  the  procession  by  daylight.  There  will  be 
a  procession  —  is  it  not  true  ?  ” 


TESSA  ABROAD  AND  AT  HOME. 


47 


“Yes,  after  a  sort,”  said  Tito,  “as  lively  as  a  flight  of  cranes. 
You  must  not  expect  roses  and  glittering  kings  and  queens, 
my  Tessa.  However,  I  suppose  any  string  of  people  to  be 
called  a  procession  will  please  your  blue  eyes.  And  there ’s  a 
thing  they  have  raised  in  the  Piazza  de’  Signori  for  the  bonfire. 
You  may  like  to  see  that.  But  come  home  early,  and  look 
like  a  grave  little  old  woman ;  and  if  you  see  any  men  with 
feathers  and  swords,  keep  out  of  their  way :  they  are  very 
fierce,  and  like  to  cut  old  women’s  heads  off.” 

“  Santa  Madonna  !  where  do  they  come  from  ?  Ah  !  you 
are  laughing ;  it  is  not  so  bad.  But  I  will  keep  away  from 
them.  Only,”  Tessa  went  on  in  a  whisper,  putting  her  lips 
near  Naldo’s  ear,  “if  I  might  take  Lillo  with  me!  He  is  very 
sensible.” 

“  But  who  will  thump  Monna  Lisa  then,  if  she  does  n’t 
hear  ?  ”  said  Tito,  finding  it  difficult  not  to  laugh,  but  think¬ 
ing  it  necessary  to  look  serious.  “No,  Tessa,  you  could  not 
take  care  of  Lillo  if  you  got  into  a  crowd,  and  he ’s  too  heavy 
for  you  to  carry  him.” 

“  It  is  true,”  said  Tessa,  rather  sadly,  “  and  he  likes  to  run 
away.  I  forgot  that.  Then  I  will  go  alone.  But  now  look 
at  Ninna  —  you  have  not  looked  at  her  enough.” 

Ninna  was  a  blue-eyed  thing,  at  the  tottering,  tumbling  age 
—  a  fair  solid,  which,  like  a  loaded  die,  found  its  base  with  a 
constancy  that  warranted  prediction.  Tessa  went  to  snatch 
her  up,  and  when  Babbo  was  paying  due  attention  to  the  re¬ 
cent  teeth  and  other  marvels,  she  said,  in  a  whisper,  “And 
shall  I  buy  some  confetti  for  the  children  ?  ” 

Tito  draw  some  small  coins  from  his  scarsella,  and  poured 
them  into  her  palm. 

“  That  will  buy  no  end,”  said  Tessa,  delighted  at  this  abun¬ 
dance.  “  I  shall  not  mind  going  without  Lillo  so  much,  if  I 
bring  him  something.” 

So  Tessa  set  out  in  the  morning  towards  the  great  piazza 
where  the  bonfire  was  to  be.  '  She  did  not  think  the  February 
breeze  cold  enough  to  demand  further  covering  than  her  green 
woollen  dress.  A  mantle  would  have  been  oppressive,  for  it 
would  have  hidden  a  new  necklace  and  a  new  clasp,  mounted 


48 


EOMOLA. 


with  silver,  the  only  ornamental  presents  Tito  had  ever  made 
her.  Tessa  did  not  think  at  all  of  showing  her  figure,  for  no 
one  had  ever  told  her  it  was  pretty ;  but  she  was  quite  sure 
that  her  necklace  and  clasp  were  of  the  prettiest  sort  ever 
worn  by  the  richest  contadina,  and  she  arranged  her  white 
hood  over  her  head  so  that  the  front  of  her  necklace  might  be 
well  displayed.  These  ornaments,  she  considered,  must  inspire 
respect  for  her  as  the  wife  of  some  one  who  could  afford  to 
buy  them. 

She  tripped  along  very  cheerily  in  the  February  sunshine, 
thinking  much  of  the  purchases  for  the  little  ones,  with  which 
she  was  to  fill  her  small  basket,  and  not  thinking  at  all  of  any 
one  who  might  be  observing  her.  Yet  her  descent  from  her 
upper  story  into  the  street  had  been  watched,  and  she  was 
being  kept  in  sight  as  she  walked  by  a  person  who  had  often 
waited  in  vain  to  see  if  it  were  not  Tessa  who  lived  in  that 
house  to  which  he  had  more  than  once  dogged  Tito.  Baldas- 
sarre  was  carrying  a  package  of  yarn  :  he  was  constantly  em¬ 
ployed  in  that  way,  as  a  means  of  earning  his  scanty  bread, 
and  keeping  the  sacred  fire  of  vengeance  alive ;  and  he  had 
come  out  of  his  way  this  morning,  as  he  had  often  done  before, 
that  he  might  pass  by  the  house  to  which  he  had  followed 
Tito  in  the  evening.  His  long  imprisonment  had  so  intensi¬ 
fied  his  timid  suspicion  and  his  belief  in  some  diabolic  fortune 
favoring  Tito,  that  he  had  not  dared  to  pursue  him,  except 
under  cover  of  a  crowd  or  of  the  darkness ;  he  felt,  with  in¬ 
stinctive  horror,  that  if  Tito’s  eyes  fell  upon  him,  he  should 
again  be  held  up  to  obloquy,  again  be  dragged  awa3f  ;  his 
weapon  would  be  taken  from  him,  and  he  should  be  cast  help¬ 
less  into  a  prison-cell.  His  fierce  purpose  had  become  as 
stealthy  as  a  serpent’s,  which  depends  for  its  prey  on  one  dart 
of  the  fang.  Justice  was  weak  and  unfriended;  and  he  could 
not  hear  again  the  voice  that  pealed  the  promise  of  vengeance 
in  the  Huomo ;  he  had  been  there  again  and  again,  but  that 
voice,  too,  had  apparently  been  stifled  by  cunning  strong-armed 
wickedness.  For  a  long  while,  Baldassarre’s  ruling  thought 
was  to  ascertain  whether  Tito  still  wore  the  armor,  for  now 
at  last  his  fainting  hope  would  have  been  contented  with  » 


TESSA  ABROAD  AND  AT  HOME. 


49 


successful  stab  on  this  side  the  grave ;  but  he  would  never  risk 
his  precious  knife  again.  It  was  a  weary  time  he  had  had  to 
wait  for  the  cliance  of  answering  this  question  by  touching 
Tito’s  back  in  the  press  of  the  street.  Since  then,  the  knowl¬ 
edge  that  the  sharp  steel  was  useless,  and  that  he  had  no 
hope  but  in  some  new  device,  had  fallen  with  leaden  weight 
on  his  enfeebled  mind.  A  dim  vision  of  winning  one  of 
tiiose  two  wives  to  aid  him  came  before  him  continually, 
and  continually  slid  away.  The  wife  who  had  lived  on  the 
hill  was  no  longer  there.  If  he  could  find  her  again,  he  might 
grasp  some  thread  of  a  project,  and  work  his  way  to  more 
clearness. 

And  this  morning  he  had  succeeded.  He  was  quite  certain 
now  where  this  wife  lived,  and  as  he  walked,  bent  a  little 
under  his  burden  of  yarn,  yet  keeping  the  green  and  white 
figure  in  sight,  his  mind  was  dwelling  upon  her  and  her  cir¬ 
cumstances  as  feeble  eyes  dwell  on  lines  and  colors,  trying 
to  interpret  them  into  consistent  significance. 

Tessa  had  to  pass  through  various  long  streets  without  see¬ 
ing  any  other  sign  of  the  Carnival  than  unusual  grMips  of  the 
country  people  in  their  best  garments,  and  that  disposition  in 
everybody  to  chat  and  loiter  which  marks  the  early  hours  of 
a  holiday,  before  the  spectacle  has  begun.  Presently,  in  her 
disappointed  search  for  remarkable  objects,  her  eyes  fell  on  a 
man  with  a  pedler’s  basket  before  him,  who  seemed  to  be  sell¬ 
ing  nothing  but  little  red  crosses  to  all  the  passengers.  A 
little  red  cross  would  be  pretty  to  hang  up  over  her  bed ;  it 
would  also  help  to  keep  off  harm,  and  would  perhaps  make 
Ninna  stronger.  Tessa  went  to  the  other  side  of  the  street 
that  she  might  ask  the  pedler  the  price  of  the  crosses,  fearing 
that  they  would  cost  a  little  too  much  for  her  to  spare  from 
her  purchase  of  sweets.  The  pedler’s  back  had  been  turned 
towards  her  hitherto,  but  when  she  came  near  him  she  recog- 
nized  an  old  acquaintance  of  the  Mercato,  Bratti  Ferravecchi, 
and,  accustomed  to  feel  that  she  was  to  avoid  old  acquaint¬ 
ances,  she  turned  away  again  and  passed  to  the  other  side  of 
the  street.  But  Bi-atti’s  eye  was  too  well  practised  in  looking 
out  at  the  corner  after  possible  C’^stomers,  for  her  movement 


50 


ROMOLA. 


to  have  escaped  him,  and  she  was  presently  arrested  by  a  tap 
on  the  arm  from  one  of  the  red  crosses. 

“  Young  woman,”  said  Bratti,  as  she  unwillingly  turned  her 
head,  ‘^you  come  from  some  castello  a  good  way  off,  it  seems 
to  me,  else  you ’d  never  think  of  walking  about,  this  blessed 
Carnival,  without  a  red  cross  in  your  hand.  Santa  Madonna ! 
Four  white  quattrini  is  a  small  price  to  pay  for  your  soul  — 
prices  rise  in  purgatory,  let  me  tell  you.” 

Oh,  I  should  like  one,”  said  Tessa,  hastily,  “  but  I  could  n’t 
spare  four  white  quattrini.” 

Bratti  had  at  first  regarded  Tessa  too  abstractedly  as  a  mere 
customer  to  look  at  her  with  any  scrutiny,  but  when  she  began 
to  speak  he  exclaimed,  ^‘By  the  head  of  San  Giovanni,  it  must 
be  the  little  Tessa,  and  looking  as  fresh  as  a  ripe  apple ! 
AVhat !  you  Ve  done  none  the  worse,  then,  for  running  away 
from  father  Nofri  ?  You  were  in  the  right  of  it,  for  he  goes 
on  crutches  now,  and  a  crabbed  fellow  with  crutches  is  dan¬ 
gerous  ;  he  can  reach  across  the  house  and  beat  a  woman  as 
he  sits.” 

“  I ’m  married,”  said  Tessa,  rather  demurely,  remembering 
Naldo’s  command  that  she  should  behave  with  gravity  ^  “and 
my  husband  takes  great  care  of  me.” 

“  Ah,  then,  you  Ve  fallen  on  your  feet !  Nofri  said  you 
were  good-for-nothing  vermin  ;  but  what  then  ?  An  ass  may 
bray  a  good  while  before  he  shakes  the  stars  down.  I  always 
said  you  did  well  to  run  away,  and  it  is  n’t  often  Bratti ’s  in 
the  wrong.  Well,  and  so  you ’ve  got  a  husband  and  plenty  of 
money  ?  Then  you  ’ll  never  think  much  of  giving  four  white 
quattrini  for  a  red  cross.  I  get  no  profit ;  but  what  with  the 
famine  and  the  new  religion,  all  other  merchandise  is  gone 
down.  You  live  in  the  country  where  the  chestnuts  are 
plenty,  eh  ?  You ’ve  never  wanted  for  polenta,  I  can  see.” 

“  No,  I ’ve  never  wanted  anything,”  said  Tessa,  still  on  her 
guard. 

“Then  you  can  afford  to  buy  a  cross.  I  got  a  Padre  to 
bless  them,  and  you  get  blessing  and  all  for  four  quattrini. 
/t  isn’t  for  the  profit;  I  hardly  get  a  danaro  by  the  whole 
lot.  But  then  they  ’re  holy  wares,  and  it ’s  getting  harder  and 


TESSA  ABROAD  AND  AT  HOME. 


51 


harder  work  to  see  your  way  to  Paradise :  the  very  Carnival 
is  like  Holy  Week,  and  the  least  you  can  do  to  keep  the  Devil 
from  getting  the  upper  hand  is  to  buy  a  cross.  God  guard 
you!  think  what  the  Devil’s  tooth  is!  You’ve  seen  him 
biting  the  man  in  San  Giovanni,  I  should  hope  ?  ” 

Tessa  felt  much  teased  and  frightened.  “  Oh,  Bratti,”  she 
said,  with  a  discomposed  face,  “  I  want  to  buy  a  great  many 
confetti :  I ’ve  got  little  Lillo  and  Ninna  at  home.  And  nice 
colored  sweet  things  cost  a  great  deal.  And  they  will  not 
like  the  cross  so  well,  though  I  know  it  would  be  good  to 
have  it.” 

“  Come,  then,”  said  Bratti,  fond  of  laying  up  a  store  of 
merits  by  imagining  possible  extortions  and  then  heroically 
renouncing  them,  “  since  you  ’re  an  old  acquaintance,  you 
shall  have  it  for  two  quattrini.  It ’s  making  you  a  present  of 
the  cross,  to  say  nothing  of  the  blessing.” 

Tessa  was  reaching  out  her  two  quattrini  with  trembling 
hesitation,  when  Bratti  said  abruptly,  “  Stop  a  bit !  Where 
do  you  live  ?  ” 

‘‘  Oh,  a  long  way  off,”  she  answered,  almost  automatically, 
being  preoccupied  with  her  quattrini ;  “  beyond  San  Ambrogio, 
in  the  Via  Piccola,  at  the  top  of  the  house  where  the  wood  is 
stacked  below.” 

‘‘  Very  good,”  said  Bratti,  in  a  patronizing  tone  ;  ‘Ghen  I  ’ll 
let  you  have  the  cross  on  trust,  and  call  for  the  money.  So 
you  live  inside  the  gates  ?  W ell,  well,  I  shall  be  passing.” 

‘‘No,  no!”  said  Tessa,  frightened  lest  Naldo  should  be 
angry  at  this  revival  of  an  old  acquaintance.  “  I  can  spare 
the  money.  Take  it  now.” 

“No,”  said  Bratti,  resolutely;  “I’m  not  a  hard-hearted 
pedler.  I  ’ll  call  and  see  if  you ’ve  got  any  rags,  and  you  shall 
make  a  bargain.  See,  here ’s  the  cross  :  and  there ’s  Pippo’s 
shop  not  far  behind  you ;  you  can  go  and  fill  your  basket,  and 
I  must  go  and  get  mine  empty.  Addio,  piccina.” 

Bratti  went  on  his  way,  and  Tessa,  stimulated  to  change  her 
money  into  confetti  before  further  accident,  went  into  Pippo’s 
shop,  a  little  fluttered  by  the  thought  that  she  had  let  Bratti 
know  more  about  her  than  her  husband  would  approve.  There 


o2 


HOMOLA. 


were  certainly  more  dangers  in  coming  to  see  the  Carnival 
than  in  staying  at  home ;  and  she  would  have  felt  this  more 
strongly  if  she  had  known  that  the  wicked  old  man,  who  had 
wanted  to  kill  her  husband  on  the  hill,  was  still  keeping  her 
in  sight.  But  she  had  not  noticed  the  man  with  the  burden 
on  his  back. 

The  consciousness  of  having  a  small  basketful  of  things  to 
make  the  children  glad,  dispersed  her  anxiety,  and  as  she 
entered  the  Via  de’  Libraj  her  face  had  its  usual  expression 
of  childlike  content.  And  now  she  thought  there  was  really 
a  procession  coming,  for  she  saw  white  robes  and  a  banner, 
and  her  heart  began  to  palpitate  with  expectation.  She  stood 
a  little  aside,  but  in  that  narrow  street  there  was  the  pleasure 
of  being  obliged  to  look  very  close.  The  banner  was  pretty  : 
it  was  the  Holy  Mother  with  the  Babe,  whose  love  for  her 
Tessa  had  believed  in  more  and  more  since  she  had  had  her 
babies  ;  and  the  figures  in  white  had  not  only  green  wreaths 
on  their  heads,  but  little  red  crosses  by  their  side,  which 
caused  her  some  satisfaction  that  she  also  had  her  red  cross. 
Certainly,  they  looked  as  beautiful  as  the  angels  on  the  clouds, 
and  to  Tessa’s  mind  they  too  had  a  background  of  cloud,  like 
everything  else  that  came  to  her  in  life.  How  and  whence 
did  they  come  ?  She  did  not  mind  much  about  knowing. 
But  one  thing  surprised  her  as  newer  than  wreaths  and 
crosses ;  it  was  that  some  of  the  white  figures  carried  baskets 
between  them.  What  could  the  baskets  be  for  ? 

But  now  they  were  very  near,  and,  to  her  astonishment,  they 
wheeled  aside  and  came  straight  up  to  her.  She  trembled  as 
she  would  have  done  if  St.  Michael  in  the  picture  had  shaken 
his  head  at  her,  and  was  conscious  of  nothing  but  terrified 
wonder  till  she  saw  close  to  her  a  round  boyish  face,  lower 
than  her  own,  and  heard  a  treble  voice  saying,  “  Sister,  you 
carry  the  Anathema  about  you.  Yield  it  up  to  the  blessed 
Gesii,  and  He  will  adorn  you  with  the  gems  of  His  grace.” 

Tessa  was  only  more  frightened,  understanding  nothing. 
Her  first  conjecture  settled  on  her  basket  of  sweets.  They 
wanted  that,  these  alarming  angels.  Oh  dear,  dear!  She 
looked  down  at  it. 


TESSA  ABROAD  AND  AT  HOME. 


63 


^‘No,  sister/’  said  a  taller  youth,  pointing  to  her  necklace 
and  the  clasp  of  her  belt,  “  it  is  those  vanities  that  are  the 
Anathema.  Take  off  that  necklace  and  unclasp  that  belt, 
that  they  may  be  burned  in  the  holy  Bonfire  of  Vanities,  and 
save  you  from  burning.” 

“It  is  the  truth,  my  sister,”  said  a  still  taller  youth,  evi¬ 
dently  the  archangel  of  this  band.  “Listen  to  these  voices 
speaking  the  divine  message.  You  already  carry  a  red  cross  : 
let  that  be  your  only  adornment.  Yield  up  your  necklace  and 
belt,  and  you  shall  obtain  grace.” 

This  was  too  much.  Tessa,  overcome  with  awe,  dared  not 
say  “  no,”  but  she  was  equally  unable  to  render  up  her  beloved 
necklace  and  clasp.  Her  pouting  lips  were  quivering,  the  tears 
rushed  to  her  eyes,  and  a  great  drop  fell.  For  a  moment 
she  ceased  to  see  anything  ;  she  felt  nothing  but  confused 
terror  and  misery.  Suddenly  a  gentle  hand  was  laid  on  her 
arm,  and  a  soft,  wonderful  voice,  as  if  the  Holy  Madonna 
were  speaking,  said,  “  Do  not  be  afraid ;  no  one  shall  harm 
you.” 

Tessa  looked  up  and  saw  a  lady  in  black,  with  a  young 
heavenly  face  and  loving  hazel  eyes.  She  had  never  seen 
any  one  like  this  lady  before,  and  under  other  circumstances 
might  have  had  awe-struck  thoughts  about  her ;  but  now 
everything  else  was  overcome  by  the  sense  that  loving  pro¬ 
tection  was  near  her.  The  tears  only  fell  the  faster,  relieving 
her  swelling  heart,  as  she  looked  up  at  the  heavenly  face,  and, 
putting  her  hand  to  her  necklace,  said  sobbingly  — 

“  I  can’t  give  them  to  be  burnt.  My  husband  —  he  bought 
them  for  me  —  and  they  are  so  pretty  —  and  Ninna  —  oh,  I 
wish  I ’d  never  come  !  ” 

“  Do  not  asK  her  for  them,”  said  Bomola,  speaking  to  the 
white-rolled  boys  in  a  tone  of  mild  authority.  “  It  answers  no 
good  end  for  people  to  give  up  such  things  against  their  will. 
That  is  not  what  Fra  Girolamo  approves :  he  would  have  such 
things  given  up  freely.” 

Madonna  Bomola’s  word  was  not  to  be  resisted,  and  the 
white  train  moved  on.  They  even  moved  with  haste,  as  if 
some  new  object  had  caught  their  eyes  j  and  Tessa  felt  with 


54  ROMOLA. 

bliss  that  they  were  gone,  and  that  her  necklace  and  clasp 
were  still  with  her. 

“  Oh,  I  will  go  back  to  the  house,”  she  said,  still  agitated ; 
“I  will  go  nowhere  else.  But  if  I  should  meet  them  again, 
and  you  not  be  there  ?  ”  she  added,  expecting  everything  from 
this  heavenly  lady. 

“  Stay  a  little,”  said  Komola.  “  Come  with  me  under  this 
doorway,  and  we  will  hide  the  necklace  and  clasp,  and  then 
you  will  be  in  no  danger.” 

She  led  Tessa  under  the  archway,  and  said,  “Now,  can  we 
find  room  for  your  necklace  and  belt  in  your  basket  ?  Ah ! 
your  basket  is  full  of  crisp  things  that  will  break ;  let  us  be 
careful,  and  lay  the  heavy  necklace  under  them.” 

It  was  like  a  change  in  a  dream  to  Tessa  —  the  escape  from 
nightmare  into  floating  safety  and  joy  —  to  find  herself  taken 
care  of  by  this  lady,  so  lovely,  and  powerful,  and  gentle.  She 
let  Eomola  unfasten  her  necklace  and  clasp,  while  she  herself 
did  nothing  but  look  up  at  the  face  that  bent  over  her. 

“  They  are  sweets  for  Lillo  and  Ninna,”  she  said,  as  Eomola 
carefully  lifted  up  the  light  parcels  in  the  basket,  and  placed 
the  ornaments  below  them. 

“  Those  are  your  children  ?  ”  said  Eomola,  smiling.  “  And 
you  would  rather  go  home  to  them  than  see  any  more  of  the 
Carnival  ?  Else  you  have  not  far  to  go  to  the  Piazza  de’ 
Signori,  and  there  you  would  see  the  pile  for  the  great 
bonfire.” 

“No,  oh  no  !”  said  Tessa,  eagerly;  “I  shall  never  like  bon¬ 
fires  again.  I  will  go  back.” 

“You  live  at  some  castello,  doubtless,”  said  Eomola,  not  wait¬ 
ing  for  an  answer.  “  Towards  which  gate  do  you  go  ?  ” 

“Towards  Por’  Santa  Croce.” 

“Come,  then,”  said  Eomola,  taking  her  by  the  hand  and 
leading  her  to  the  corner  of  a  street  nearly  opposite.  “  If  you 
go  down  there,”  she  said,  pausing,  “you  will  soon  be  in  a 
straight  road.  And  I  must  leave  you  now,  because  some  one 
else  expects  me.  You  will  not  be  frightened.  Your  pretty 
things  are  quite  safe  now.  Addio.” 

*‘Addio,  Madonna,”  said  Tessa,  almost  in  a  whisper,  not 


TESSA  ABKOAI)  AND  AT  HOME. 


55  ^ 

knowing  what  else  it  would  be  right  to  say ;  and  in  an  instant 
the  heavenly  lady  was  gone.  Tessa  turned  to  catch  a  last 
glimpse,  but  she  only  saw  the  tall  gliding  figure  vanish  round 
the  projecting  stonework.  So  she  went  on  her  way  in  wonder, 
longing  to  be  once  more  safely  housed  with  Monna  Lisa,  un- 
desirous  of  carnivals  forevermore. 

Baldassarre  had  kept  Tessa  in  sight  till  the  moment  of  her 
parting  with  Eoniola :  then  he  went  away  with  his  bundle  of 
yarn.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  discerned  a  clew  which 
might  guide  him  if  he  could  only  grasp  the  necessary  details 
firmly  enough.  He  had  seen  the  two  wives  together,  and  the 
sight  had  brought  to  his  conceptions  that  vividness  which  had 
been  wanting  before.  His  power  of  imagining  facts  needed 
to  be  reinforced  continually  by  the  senses.  The  tall  wife  was 
the  noble  and  rightful  wife ;  she  had  the  blood  in  her  that 
would  be  readily  kindled  to  resentment ;  she  would  know 
what  scholarship  was,  and  how  it  might  lie  locked  in  by  the 
obstructions  of  the  stricken  body,  like  a  treasure  buried  by 
earthquake.  She  could  believe  him  :  she  would  be  inclined  to 
believe  him,  if  he  proved  to  her  that  her  husband  was  unfaith¬ 
ful.  Women  cared  about  that:  they  would  take  vengeance 
for  that.  If  this  wife  of  Tito’s  loved  him,  she  would  have  a 
sense  of  injury  which  Baldassarre’s  mind  dwelt  on  with  keen 
longing,  as  if  it  would  be  the  strength  of  another  Will  added 
to  his  own,  the  strength  of  another  mind  to  form  devices. 

Both  these  wives  had  been  kind  to  Baldassarre,  and  their 
acts  towards  him,  being  bound  up  with  the  very  image  of 
them,  had  not  vanished  from  his  memory;  yet  the  thought 
of  their  pain  could  not  present  itself  to  him  as  a  check.  To 
him  it  seemed  that  pam  was  the  order  of  the  world  for  all 
except  the  hard  and  base.  If  any  were  innocent,  if  any  were 
noble,  where  could  the  utmost  gladness  lie  for  them  ?  Where 
it  lay  for  him  —  in  unconquerable  hatred  and  triumphant  ven¬ 
geance.  But  he  must  be  cautious :  he  must  watch  this  wife 
in  the  Via  de’  Bardi,  and  learn  more  of  her;  for  even  here 
frustration  was  possible.  There  was  no  power  for  him  now 
but  in  patience. 


66 


BOMOLA. 


CHAPTER  LI. 

MONNA  BRIGIDA’s  CONVERSION. 

When  Romola  said  that  some  one  else  expected  her,  she 
meant  her  cousin  Brigida,  but  she  was  far  from  suspecting 
how  mueh  that  good  kinswoman  was  in  need  of  her.  Return¬ 
ing  together  towards  the  piazza,  they  had  descried  the  com¬ 
pany  of  youths  coming  to  a  stand  before  Tessa,  and  when 
Romola,  having  approached  near  enough  to  see  the  simple  little 
contadina’s  distress,  said,  ^‘Wait  for  me  a  moment,  cousin,” 
Monna  Brigida  said  hastily,  “Ah,  I  will  not  go  on:  come  for 
me  to  Boni’s  shop,  —  I  shall  go  back  there.” 

The  truth  was,  Monna  Brigida  had  a  consciousness  on  the 
one  hand  of  certain  “  vanities  ”  carried  on  her  person,  and  on 
the  other  of  a  growing  alarm  lest  the  Piagnoni  should  be  right 
in  holding  that  rouge,  and  false  hair,  and  pearl  embroidery, 
endamaged  the  soul.  Their  serious  view  of  things  filled  the 
air  like  an  odor ;  nothing  seemed  to  have  exactly  the  same 
flavor  as  it  used  to  have ;  and  there  was  the  dear  child  Romola, 
in  her  youth  and  beauty,  leading  a  life  that  was  uncomforta- 
bl}'’  suggestive  of  rigorous  demands  on  woman.  A  widow  at 
fifty-five  whose  satisfaction  has  been  largely  drawn  from  what 
she  thinks  of  her  own  person,  and  what  she  believes  others 
think  of  it,  requires  a  great  fund  of  imagination  to  keep 
her  spirits  buoyant.  And  Monna  Brigida  had  begun  to  have 
frequent  struggles  at  her  toilet.  If  her  soul  would  prosper 
better  without  them,  was  it  really  worth  while  to  put  on  the 
rouge  and  the  braids  ?  But  when  she  lifted  up  the  hand-mirror 
and  saw  a  sallow  face  with  baggy  cheeks,  and  crows’-feet  that 
were  not  to  be  dissimulated  by  any  simpering  of  the  lips  — 
when  she  parted  her  gray  hair,  and  let  it  lie  in  simple  Piag- 
none  fashion  round  her  face,  her  courage  failed.  Monna  Berta 
would  certainly  burst  out  laughing  at  her,  and  call  her  an  old 
hag,  and  as  Monna  Berta  was  really  only  fifty-two,  she  had  a 


MONNA  BRIGIDA’S  CONVERSION. 


57 


superiority  whicli  would  make  tlie  observation  cutting.  Every 
woman  who  was  not  a  Piagnone  would  give  a  shrug  at  the 
sight  of  her,  and  the  men  would  accost  her  as  if  she  were  their 
grandmother.  Whereas,  at  fifty-live  a  woman  was  not  so  very 
old  —  she  only  required  making  up  a  little.  So  the  rouge  and 
the  braids  and  the  embroidered  berretta  went  on  again,  and 
Monna  Brigida  was  satisfied  with  the  accustomed  effect ;  as 
for  her  neck,  if  she  covered  it  up,  people  might  suppose  it  was 
too  old  to  show,  and,  on  the  contrary,  with  the  necklaces  round 
it,  it  looked  better  than  Monna  Berta’s.  This  very  day,  when 
she  was  preparing  for  the  Piagnone  Carnival,  such  a  struggle 
had  occurred,  and  the  conflicting  fears  and  longings  which 
Caused  the  struggle,  caused  her  to  turn  back  and  seek  refuge  in 
the  druggist’s  shop  rather  than  encounter  the  collectors  of  the 
Anathema  when  Romola  was  not  by  her  side.  But  Monna 
Brigida  was  not  quite  rapid  enough  in  her  retreat.  She  had 
been  descried,  even  before  she  turned  away,  by  the  white-robed 
boys  in  the  rear  of  those  who  wheeled  round  towards  Tessa, 
and  the  willingness  with  which  Tessa  was  given  up  was,  per¬ 
haps,  slightly  due  to  the  fact  that  part  of  the  troop  had  already 
accosted  a  personage  carrying  more  markedly  upon  her  the  dan¬ 
gerous  weight  of  the  Anathema.  It  happened  that  several  of 
this  troop  were  at  the  youngest  age  taken  into  peculiar  train¬ 
ing  ;  and  a  small  fellow  of  ten,  his  olive  wreath  resting  above 
cherubic  cheeks  and  wide  brown  eyes,  his  imagination  really 
possessed  with  a  hovering  awe  at  existence  as  something  in  which 
great  consequences  impended  on  being  good  or  bad,  his  long¬ 
ings  nevertheless  running  in  the  direction  of  mastery  and  mis¬ 
chief,  was  the  first  to  reach  Monna  Brigida  and  place  himself 
across  her  path.  She  felt  angry,  and  looked  for  an  open  door, 
but  there  was  not  one  at  hand,  and  by  attempting  to  escapes 
now,  she  would  only  make  things  worse.  But  it  was  not  the 
cherubic-faced  young  one  who  first  addressed  her ;  it  was  a 
youth  of  fifteen,  who  held  one  handle  of  a  wide  basket. 

Venerable  mother!”  he  began,  ‘^the  blessed  Jesus  com¬ 
mands  you  to  give  up  the  Anathema  which  you  carry  upon 
you.  That  cap  embroidered  with  pearls,  those  jewels  that 
fasten  up  your  false  hair  — let  them  be  given  up  and  sold  for 


58 


ROMOLA. 


the  poor  ;  and  cast  the  hair  itself  away  from  you,  as  a  lie  that 
is  only  fit  for  burning.  Doubtless,  too,  you  have  other  jewels 
under  your  silk  mantle.” 

“  Yes,  lady,”  said  the  youth  at  the  other  handle,  who  had 
many  of  Fra  Girolamo’s  phrases  by  heart,  ‘Hhey  are  too  heavy 
for  you  :  they  are  heavier  than  a  millstone,  and  are  weighting 
you  for  perdition.  Will  you  adorn  yourself  with  the  hunger 
of  the  poor,  and  be  proud  to  carry  God’s  curse  upon  your 
head  ?  ” 

“  In  truth  you  are  old,  buona  madre,”  said  the  cherubic  boy, 
in  a  sweet  soprano.  “  You  look  very  ugly  with  the  red  on 
your  cheeks  and  that  black  glistening  hair,  and  those  fine 
things.  It  is  only  Satan  who  can  like  to  see  you.  Your 
Angel  is  sorry.  He  wants  you  to  rub  away  the  red.” 

The  little  fellow  snatched  a  soft  silk  scarf  from  the  basket, 
and  held  it  towards  Monna  Brigida,  that  she  might  use  it  as 
her  guardian  angel  desired.  Her  anger  and  mortification  were 
fast  giving  way  to  spiritual  alarm.  Monna  Berta  and  that 
cloud  of  witnesses,  highly  dressed  society  in  general,  were  not 
looking  at  her,  and  she  was  surrounded  by  young  monitors, 
whose  white  robes,  and  wreaths,  and  red  crosses,  and  dreadful 
candor,  had  something  awful  in  their  unusualness.  Her  Fran¬ 
ciscan  confessor.  Fra  Cristoforo,  of  Santa  Croce,  was  not  at 
hand  to  reinforce  her  distrust  of  Dominican  teaching,  and  she 
was  helplessly  possessed  and  shaken  by  a  vague  sense  that  a 
supreme  warning  was  come  to  her,  IJnvisited  by  the  least 
suggestion  of  any  other  course  that  was  open  to  her,  she  took 
the  scarf  that  was  held  out,  and  rubbed  her  cheeks,  with  trem¬ 
bling  submissiveness. 

“  It  is  well,  madonna,”  said  the  second  youth.  It  is  a  holy 
beginning.  And  when  you  have  taken  those  vanities  from 
your  head,  the  dew  of  heavenly  grace  will  descend  on  it.” 
The  infusion  of  mischief  was  getting  stronger,  and  putting  his 
hand  to  one  of  the  jewelled  pins  that  fastened  her  braids  to 
the  berretta,  he  drew  it  out.  The  heavy  black  plait  fell  down 
over  Monna  Brigida’s  face,  and  dragged  the  rest  of  the  head- 
gear  forward.  It  was  a  new  reason  for  not  hesitating :  she 
put  up  her  hands  hastily,  undid  the  other  fastenings,  and 


MONNA  BRIGIDA’S  CONVERSION. 


59 


flung  down  into  the  basket  of  doom  her  beloved  crimson-velvet 
berretta,  with  all  its  unsurpassed  embroidery  of  seed-pearls, 
and  stood  an  unrouged  woman,  with  gray  hair  pushed  back¬ 
ward  from  a  face  where  certain  deep  lines  of  age  had  triumphed 
over  embonpoint. 

But  the  berretta  was  not  allowed  to  lie  in  the  basket.  With 
impish  zeal  the  youngsters  lifted  it,  and  held  it  up  pitilessly, 
with  the  false  hair  dangling. 

‘‘  See,  venerable  mother,”  said  the  taller  youth,  “  what  ugly 
lies  you  have  delivered  yourself  from  !  And  now  you  look  like 
the  blessed  Saint  Anna,  the  mother  of  the  Holy  Virgin.” 

Thoughts  of  going  into  a  convent  forthwith,  and  never  show¬ 
ing  herself  in  the  world  again,  were  rushing  through  Monna 
Brigida’s  mind.  There  was  nothing  possible  for  her  but  to 
take  care  of  her  soul.  Of  course,  there  were  spectators  laugh¬ 
ing  :  she  had  no  need  to  look  round  to  assure  herself  of  that. 
Well !  it  would,  perhaps,  be  better  to  be  forced  to  think  more 
of  Paradise.  But  at  the  thought  that  the  dear  accustomed 
world  was  no  longer  in  her  choice,  there  gathered  some  of 
those  hard  tears  which  just  moisten  elderly  eyes,  and  she 
could  see  but  dimly  a  large  rough  hand  holding  a  red  cross, 
w'hich  was  suddenly  thrust  before  her  over  the  shoulders  of 
the  boys,  while  a  strong  guttural  voice  said  — 

‘‘  Only  four  quattrini,  madonna,  blessing  and  all !  Buy  it. 
You  ’ll  find  a  comfort  in  it  now  your  wig ’s  gone.  Deh  !  what 
are  we  sinners  doing  all  our  lives  ?  Making  soup  in  a  basket, 
and  getting  nothing  but  the  scum  for  our  stomachs.  Better 
buy  a  blessing,  madonna  !  Only  four  quattrini ;  the  profit 
is  not  so  much  as  the  smell  of  a  danaro,  and  it  goes  to  the 
poor.” 

Monna  Brigida,  in  dim-eyed  confusion,  was  proceeding  to  the 
further  submission  of  reaching  money  from  her  embroidered 
scarsella,  at  present  hidden  by  her  silk  mantle,  when  the  group 
round  her,  which  she  had  not  yet  entertained  the  idea  of  escap¬ 
ing,  opened  before  a  figure  as  welcome  as  an  angel  loosing 
prison-bolts. 

“Roinola,  look  at  me  !”  said  Monna  Brigida,  in  a  pitet  ua 
tone,  putting  out  both  her  hands 


60 


ROMOLA. 


The  white  troop  was  already  moving  away,  with  a  slight 
consciousness  that  its  zeal  about  the  head-gear  had  been  super¬ 
abundant  enough  to  afford  a  dispensation  from  any  further 
demand  for  penitential  offerings. 

“Dear  cousin,  don’t  be  distressed,”  said  Eomola,  smitten 
with  pity,  yet  hardly  able  to  help  smiling  at  the  sudden 
apparition  of  her  kinswoman  in  a  genuine,  natural  guise, 
strangely  contrasted  with  all  memories  of  her.  She  took  the 
black  drapery  from  her  own  head,  and  threw  it  over  Morma 
Brigida’s.  “  There,”  she  went  on  soothingly,  “  no  one  will 
remark  you  now.  We  will  turn  down  the  Via  del  Palagio  and 
go  straight  to  our  house.” 

They  hastened  away,  Monna  Brigida  grasping  Romola’s  hand 
tightly,  as  if  to  get  a  stronger  assurance  of  her  being  actually 
there. 

“  Ah,  my  Romola,  my  dear  child  !  ”  said  the  short  fat  woman, 
hurrying  with  frequent  steps  to  keep  pace  with  the  majestic 
young  figure  beside  her ;  “  what  an  old  scarecrow  I  am  !  I 
must  be  good  —  I  mean  to  be  good  !  ” 

‘‘  Yes,  yes  ;  buy  a  cross  !  ”  said  the  guttural  voice,  while  the 
rough  hand  was  thrust  once  more  before  Monna  Brigida:  for 
Bratti  was  not  to  be  abashed  by  Eomola’s  presence  into  re¬ 
nouncing  a  probable  customer,  and  had  quietly  followed  up 
their  retreat.  ‘‘  Only  four  quattrini,  blessing  and  all  —  and  if 
there  was  any  profit,  it  would  all  go  to  the  poor.” 

Monna  Brigida  would  have  been  compelled  to  pause,  even  if 
she  had  been  in  a  less  submissive  mood.  She  put  up  one  hand 
deprecatingly  to  arrest  Eomola’s  remonstrance,  and  with  the 
other  reached  out  a  grosso,  worth  many  white  quattrini,  saying, 
in  an  entreating  tone  — 

‘‘  Take  it,  good  man,  and  begone.” 

“You’re  in  the  right,  madonna,”  said  Bratti,  taking  the  coin 
quickly,  and  thrusting  the  cross  into  her  hand ;  “  I  ’ll  not  offer 
you  change,  for  I  might  as  well  rob  you  of  a  mass.  What ! 
we  must  all  be  scorched  a  little,  but  you  ’ll  come  off  the  easier ; 
better  fall  from  the  window  than  the  roof.  A  good  Easter  and 
a  good  year  to  you !  ” 

“Well,  Eomola,”  cried  Monna  Brigida,  pathetically,  as  Bratti 


61 


A  PROPHETESS. 

left  them,  “  if  I ’m  to  be  a  Piagnone  it ’s  no  matter  how  1 
look !  ” 

Dear  cousin,”  said  Eomola,  smiling  at  her  affectionately, 
^‘you  don’t  know  how  much  better  you  look  than  you  ever  did 
before.  I  see  now  how  good-natured  yOur  face  is,  like  your¬ 
self.  That  red  and  finery  seemed  to  thrust  themselves  forward 
and  hide  expression.  Ask  our  Piero  or  any  other  painter  if 
he  would  not  rather  paint  your  portrait  now  than  before.  I 
think  all  lines  of  the  human  face  have  something  either  touch¬ 
ing  or  grand,  unless  they  seem  to  come  from  low  passions. 
How  fine  old  men  are,  like  my  godfather !  Why  should  not 
old  women  look  grand  and  simple  ?  ” 

“Yes,  when  one  gets  to  be  sixty,  my  Eomola,”  said  Brigida, 
relapsing  a  little  ;  “  but  I ’m  only  fifty-five,  and  Monna  Berta, 
and  everybody  —  but  it ’s  no  use  :  I  will  be  good,  like  you. 
Your  mother,  if  she ’d  been  alive,  would  have  been  as  old 
as  I  am  ;  we  were  cousins  together.  One  must  either  die 
or  get  old.  But  it  does  n’t  matter  about  being  old,  if  one ’s  a 
Piagnone.” 


CHAPTEE  LIL 

A  PROPHETESS. 

The  incidents  of  that  Carnival  day  seemed  to  Eomola  to 
carry  no  other  personal  consequences  to  her  than  the  new  care 
of  supporting  poor  cousin  Brigida  in  her  fluctuating  resignation 
to  age  and  gray  hairs  ;  but  they  introduced  a  Lenten  time  in 
which  she  was  kept  at  a  high  pitch  of  mental  excitement  and 
active  effort. 

Bernardo  del  Hero  had  been  elected  Gonfaloniere.  By  great 
exertions  the  Medicean  party  had  so  far  triumphed,  and  that 
triumph  had  deepened  Eomola’s  presentiment  of  some  secretly 
prepared  scheme  likely  to  ripen  either  into  success  or  betrayal 
during  these  two  months  of  her  godfather’s  authority.  Every 
morning  the  dim  daybreak  ar  ^t  peered  into  her  room  seemed 


62 


ROMOLA. 


to  be  that  haunting  fear  coming  back  to  her.  Every  morning 
the  fear  went  with  her  as  she  passed  through  the  streets  on 
her  way  to  the  early  sermon  in  the  Duomo  :  but  there  she 
gradually  lost  the  sense  of  its  chill  presence,  as  men  lose  the 
dread  of  death  in  the  clash  of  battle. 

In  the  Duomo  she  felt  herself  sharing  in  a  passionate  conflict 
which  had  wider  relations  than  any  enclosed  within  the  walls 
of  Florence.  For  Savonarola  was  preaching  —  preaching  the 
last  course  of  Lenten  sermons  he  was  ever  allowed  to  finish  in 
the  Duomo :  he  knew  that  excommunication  was  imminent, 
and  he  had  reached  the  point  of  defying  it.  He  held  up  the 
condition  of  the  Church  in  the  terrible  mirror  of  his  unflinch¬ 
ing  speech,  which  called  things  by  their  right  names  and  dealt 
in  no  polite  periphrases  ;  he  proclaimed  with  heightening  con¬ 
fidence  the  advent  of  renovation  — ^  of  a  moment  when  there 
would  be  a  general  revolt  against  corruption.  As  to  his  own 
destiny,  he  seemed  to  have  a  double  and  alternating  prevision: 
sometimes  he  saw  himself  taking  a  glorious  part  in  that  re¬ 
volt,  sending  forth  a  voice  that  would  be  heard  through  all 
Christendom,  and  making  the  dead  body  of  the  Church  trem¬ 
ble  into  new  life,  as  the  body  of  Lazarus  trembled  when  the 
Divine  voice  pierced  the  sepulchre ;  sometimes  he  saw  no 
prospect  for  himself  but  persecution  and  martyrdom  :  —  this 
life  for  him  was  only  a  vigil,  and  only  after  death  would  come 
the  dawn. 

The  position  was  one  which  must  have  had  its  impressive¬ 
ness  for  all  minds  that  were  not  of  the  dullest  order,  even 
if  they  were  inclined,  as  Macchiavelli  was,  to  interpret  the 
Frate’s  character  by  a  key  that  presupposed  no  loftiness.  To 
Romola,  whose  kindred  ardor  gave  her  a  firm  belief  in  Savona¬ 
rola’s  genuine  greatness  of  purpose,  the  crisis  was  as  stirring 
as  if  it  had  been  part  of  her  personal  lot.  It  blent  itself  as  an 
exalting  memory  with  all  her  daily  labors  ;  and  those  labors 
were  calling  not  only  for  difficult  perseverance,  but  for  new 
courage.  Famine  had  never  yet  taken  its  flight  from  Florence, 
and  all  distress,  by  its  long  continuance,  was  getting  harder 
to  bear ;  disease  was  spreading  in  the  crowded  cit}^,  and  the 
Plague  was  expected.  As  Eomola  walked,  often  in  weariness, 


A  PROPHETESS. 


63 


among  the  sick,  the  hungry,  and  the  murmuring,  she  felt  it 
good  to  be  inspired  by  something  more  than  her  pity  —  by  the 
belief  in  a  heroism  struggling  for  sublime  ends,  towards  which 
the  daily  action  of  her  pity  could  only  tend  feebly,  as  the 
dews  that  freshen  the  weedy  ground  to-day  tend  to  prepare  an 
unseen  harvest  in  the  years  to  come. 

But  that  mighty  music  which  stirred  her  in  the  Duomo  was 
not  without  its  jarring  notes.  Since  those  first  days  of  glow¬ 
ing  hope  when  the  Frate,  seeing  the  near  triumph  of  good  in 
the  reform  of  the  Republic  and  the  coming  of  the  French  de¬ 
liverer,  had  preached  peace,  charity,  and  oblivion  of  political 
differences,  there  had  been  a  marked  change  of  conditions : 
political  intrigue  had  been  too  obstinate  to  allow  of  the  desired 
oblivion  ;  the  belief  in  the  French  deliverer,  who  had  turned 
his  back  on  his  high  mission,  seemed  to  have  wrought  harm  ; 
and  hostility,  both  on  a  petty  and  on  a  grand  scale,  was  attack¬ 
ing  the  Prophet  with  new  weapons  and  new  determination. 

It  followed  that  the  spirit  of  contention  and  self-vindication 
pierced  more  and  more  conspicuously  in  his  sermons  ;  that  he 
was  urged  to  meet  the  popular  demands  not  only  by  increased 
insistence  and  detail  concerning  visions  and  private  revelations, 
but  by  a  tone  of  defiant  confidence  against  objectors ;  and  from 
having  denounced  the  desire  for  the  miraculous,  and  declared 
that  miracles  had  no  relation  to  true  faith,  he  had  come  to  as¬ 
sert  that  at  the  right  moment  the  Divine  power  would  attest 
the  truth  of  his  prophetic  preaching  by  a  miracle.  And  con¬ 
tinually,  in  the  rapid  transitions  of  excited  feeling,  as  the 
vision  of  triumphant  good  receded  behind  the  actual  predomi¬ 
nance  of  evil,  the  threats  of  coming  vengeance  against  vicious 
tyrants  and  corrupt  priests  gathered  some  impetus  from  per¬ 
sonal  exasperation,  as  well  as  from  indignant  zeal. 

In  the  career  of  a  great  public  orator  who  yields  himself  to 
the  inspiration  of  the  moment,  that  conflict  of  selfish  and  un¬ 
selfish  emotion  which  in  most  men  is  hidden  in  the  chamber 
of  the  soul,  is  brought  into  terrible  evidence  :  the  language  of 
the  inner  voices  is  written  out  in  letters  of  fire. 

But  if  the  tones  of  exasperation  jarred  on  Romola,  there  was 
often  another  member  of  Fra  Girolamo’s  audience  to  whom 


64 


ROMOLA. 


they  were  the  only  thrilling  tones,  like  the  vibration  of  deep 
bass  notes  to  the  deaf.  Baldassarre  had  found  out  that  the 
wonderful  Frate  was  preaching  again,  and  as  often  as  he  could, 
he  went  to  hear  the  Lenten  sermon,  that  he  might  drink  in  the 
threats  of  a  voice  which  seemed  like  a  power  on  the  side  of 
justice.  He  went  the  more  because  he  had  seen  that  Romola 
went  too  5  for  he  was  waiting  and  watching  for  a  time  when 
not  only  outward  circumstances,  but  his  own  varying  mental 
state,  would  mark  the  right  moment  for  seeking  an  interview 
with  her.  Twice  Eomola  had  caught  sight  of  his  face  in  the 
Duomo  —  once  when  its  dark  glance  was  fixed  on  hers.  She 
wished  not  to  see  it  again,  and  yet  she  looked  for  it,  as  men 
look  for  the  reappearance  of  a  portent.  But  any  revelation 
that  might  be  yet  to  come  about  this  old  man  was  a  subordi¬ 
nate  fear  now  ;  it  referred,  she  thought,  only  to  the  past,  and 
her  anxiety  was  almost  absorbed  by  the  present. 

Yet  the  stirring  Lent  passed  by ;  April,  the  second  and  final 
month  of  her  godfather’s  supreme  authority,  was  near  its 
close ;  and  nothing  had  occurred  to  fulfil  her  presentiment. 
In  the  public  mind,  too,  there  had  been  fears,  and  rumors  had 
spread  from  Rome  of  a  menacing  activity  on  the  part  of  Piero 
de’  Medici ;  but  in  a  few  days  the  suspected  Bernardo  would 
go  out  of  power. 

Romola  was  trying  to  gather  some  courage  from  the  review 
of  her  futile  fears,  when  on  the  27th,  as  she  was  walking 
out  on  her  usual  errands  of  mercy  in  the  afternoon,  she  was 
met  by  a  messenger  from  Camilla  Rucellai,  chief  among  the 
feminine  seers  of  Florence,  desiring  her  presence  forthwith  on 
matters  of  the  highest  moment.  Romola,  who  shrank  with 
unconquerable  repulsion  from  the  shrill  volubility  of  those 
illuminated  women,  and  had  just  now  a  special  repugnance 
towards  Camilla  because  of  a  report  that  she  had  announced 
revelations  hostile  to  Bernardo  del  Nero,  was  at  first  inclined 
to  send  back  a  flat  refusal.  Camilla’s  message  might  refer  to 
public  affairs,  and  Romola’s  immediate  prompting  was  to  close 
her  ears  against  knowledge  that  might  only  make  her  mental 
burden  heavier.  But  it  had  become  so  thoroughly  her  habit 
to  reject  her  impulsive  choice,  and  to  obey  passively  the  guid- 


A  PROPHETESS. 


65 

ance  of  outward  claims,  that,  reproving  herself  for  allowing 
her  presentiments  to  make  her  cowardly  and  selfish,  she  ended 
by  compliance,  and  went  straight  to  Camilla. 

She  found  the  nervous  gray -haired  woman  in  a  chamber 
arranged  as  much  as  possible  like  a  convent  cell.  The  thin 
fingers  clutching  Romola  as  she  sat,  and  the  eager  voice  ad¬ 
dressing  her  at  first  in  a  loud  whisper,  caused  her  a  physical 
shrinking  that  made  it  difficult  for  her  to  keep  her  seat. 

Camilla  had  a  vision  to  communicate  —  a  vision  in  which  it 
had  been  revealed  to  her  by  Eomola’s  Angel,  that  Romola 
knew  certain  secrets  concerning  her  godfather,  Bernardo  del 
Nero,  which,  if  disclosed,  might  save  the  Republic  from  peril. 
Camilla’s  voice  rose  louder  and  higher  as  she  narrated  her 
vision,  and  ended  by  exhorting  Romola  to  obey  the  command 
of  her  Angel,  and  separate  herself  from  the  enemy  of  God. 

Romola’s  impetuosity  was  that  of  a  massive  nature,  and,  ex¬ 
cept  in  moments  when  she  was  deeply  stirred,  her  manner 
was  calm  and  self-controlled.  She  had  a  constitutional  disgust 
for  the  shallow  excitability  of  women  like  Camilla,  whose  fac¬ 
ulties  seemed  all  wrought  up  into  fantasies,  leaving  nothing 
for  emotion  and  thought.  The  exhortation  was  not  yet  ended 
when  she  started  up  and  attempted  to  wrench  her  arm  from 
Camilla’s  tightening  grasp.  It  was  of  no  use.  The  prophetess 
kept  her  hold  like  a  crab,  and,  only  incited  to  more  eager  ex¬ 
hortation  by  Romola’s  resistance,  was  carried  beyond  her  own 
intention  into  a  shrill  statement  of  other  visions  which  were 
to  corroborate  this.  Christ  himself  had  appeared  to  her  and 
ordered  her  to  send  his  commands  to  certain  citizens  in  office 
that  they  should  throw  Bernardo  del  Nero  from  the  window 
of  the  Palazzo  Vecchio.  Fra  Girolamo  himself  knew  of  it, 
and  had  not  dared  this  time  to  say  that  the  vision  was  not  of 
Divine  authority. 

And  since  then,”  said  Camilla,  in  her  excited  treble,  strain¬ 
ing  upward  with  wild  eyes  towards  Romola’s  face,  “  the  Blessed 
Infant  has  come  to  me  and  laid  a  wafer  of  sweetness  on  my 
tongue  in  token  of  his  pleasure  that  I  had  done  his  will.” 

“  Let  me  go  !  ”  said  Romola,  in  a  deep  voice  of  anger.  “  God 
grant  you  are  mad  !  else  you  are  detestably  wicked!” 


66 


ROMOLA. 


The  violence  of  her  effort  to  be  free  was  too  strong  for 
Camilla  now.  She  wrenched  away  her  arm  and  rushod  out  of 
the  room,  not  pausing  till  she  had  hurriedly  gone  far  along  the 
street,  and  found  herself  close  to  the  church  of  the  Badia. 
She  had  but  to  pass  behind  the  curtain  under  the  old  stone 
arch,  and  she  would  find  a  sanctuary  shut  in  from  the  noise 
and  hurry  of  the  street,  where  all  objects  and  all  uses  sug¬ 
gested  the  thought  of  an  eternal  peace  subsisting  in  the  midst 
of  turmoil. 

She  turned  in,  and  sinking  down  on  the  step  of  the  altar  in 
front  of  Filippino  Lippi’s  serene  Virgin  appearing  to  St.  Ber¬ 
nard,  she  waited  in  hope  that  the  inward  tumult  which  agitated 
her  would  by-and-by  subside. 

The  thought  which  pressed  on  her  the  most  acutely  was  that 
Camilla  could  allege  Savonarola’s  countenance  of  her  wicked 
folly.  Romola  did  not  for  a  moment  believe  that  he  had  sanc¬ 
tioned  the  throwing  of  Bernardo  del  Nero  from  the  window  as 
a  Divine  suggestion ;  she  felt  certain  that  there  was  falsehood 
or  mistake  in  that  allegation.  Savonarola  had  become  more 
and  more  severe  in  his  views  of  resistance  to  malcontents ; 
but  the  ideas  of  strict  law  and  order  were  fundamental  to  all 
his  political  teaching.  Still,  since  he  knew  the  possibly  fatal 
effects  of  visions  like  Camilla’s,  since  he  had  a  marked  distrust 
of  such  spirit-seeing  women,  and  kept  aloof  from  them  as  much 
as  possible,  wh}^,  with  his  readiness  to  denounce  wrong  from 
the  pulpit,  did  he  not  publicly  denounce  these  pretended  reve¬ 
lations  which  brought  new  darkness  instead  of  light  across  the 
conception  of  a  Supreme  Will  ?  Why  ?  The  answer  came 
with  painful  clearness  :  he  was  fettered  inwardly  by  the  con¬ 
sciousness  that  such  revelations  were  not,  in  their  basis,  dis¬ 
tinctly  separable  from  his  own  visions ;  he  was  fettered 
outwardly  by  the  foreseen  consequence  of  raising  a  cry  against 
himself  even  among  members  of  his  own  party,  as  one  who 
would  suppress  all  Divine  inspiration  of  which  he  himself  was 
not  the  vehicle  —  he  or  his  confidential  and  supplementary 
seer  of  visions.  Fra  Salvestro. 

Romola,  kneeling  with  buried  face  on  the  altar-step,  was 
enduring  one  of  those  sickening  moments,  when  the  enthu- 


A  PROPHETESS. 


07 


siasm  which  had  come  to  her  as  the  only  energy  strong  enough 
to  make  life  worthy,  seemed  to  be  inevitably  bound  up  with 
vain  dreams  and  wilful  eye-shutting.  Her  mind  rushed  back 
with  a  new  attraction  towards  the  strong  worldly  sense,  the 
dignified  prudence,  the  untheoretic  virtues  of  her  godfather, 
who  was  to  be  treated  as  a  sort  of  Agag  because  he  held  that 
a  more  restricted  form  of  government  was  better  than  the 
Great  Council,  and  because  he  would  not  pretend  to  forget  old 
ties  to  the  banished  family. 

But  with  this  last  thought  rose  the  presentiment  of  some 
plot  to  restore  the  Medici  5  and  then  again  she  felt  that  the 
popular  party  was  half  justified  in  its  fierce  suspicion.  Again 
she  felt  that  to  keep  the  Government  of  Florence  pure,  and 
to  keep  out  a  vicious  rule,  was  a  sacred  cause  ;  the  Frate  was 
right  there,  and  had  carried  her  understanding  irrevocably 
with  him.  But  at  this  moment  the  assent  of  her  understand¬ 
ing  went  alone ;  it  was  given  unwillingly.  Her  heart  was 
recoiling  from  a  right  allied  to  so  much  narrowness ;  a  right 
apparently  entailing  that  hard  systematic  judgment  of  men 
which  measures  them  by  assents  and  denials  quite  superficial 
to  the  manhood  within  them.  Her  affection  and  respect  were 
clinging  with  new  tenacity  to  her  godfather,  and  with  him  to 
those  memories  of  her  father  which  were  in  the  same  opposi¬ 
tion  to  the  division  of  men  into  sheep  and  goats  by  the  easy 
mark  of  some  political  or  religious  symbol. 

After  all  has  been  said  that  can  be  said  about  the  widening 
influence  of  ideas,  it  remains  true  that  they  would  hardly  be 
such  strong  agents  unless  they  were  taken  in  a  solvent  of 
feeling.  The  great  world-struggle  of  developing  thought  is 
continually  foreshadowed  in  the  struggle  of  the  affections, 
seeking  a  justification  for  love  and  hope. 

If  Bomola’s  intellect  had  been  less  capable  of  discerning 
the  complexities  in  human  things,  all  the  early  loving  asso¬ 
ciations  of  her  life  would  have  forbidden  her  to  accept  im¬ 
plicitly  the  denunciatory  exclusiveness  of  Savonarola.  She 
had  simply  felt  that  his  mind  had  suggested  deeper  and  more 
efficacious  truth  to  her  than  any  other,  and  the  large  breathing- 
room  she  found  in  his  grand  view  of  human  duties  had  made 


68 


ROMOLA. 


her  patient  towards  that  part  of  his  teaching  which  she  could 
not  absorb,  so  long  as  its  practical  effect  came  into  collision 
with  no  strong  force  in  her.  But  now  a  sudden  insurrection 
of  feeling  had  brought  about  that  collision.  Her  indignation, 
once  roused  by  Camilla’s  visions,  could  not  pause  there,  but 
ran  like  an  illuminating  fire  over  all  the  kindred  facts  in 
Savonarola’s  teaching,  and  for  the  moment  she  felt  what  was 
true  in  the  scornful  sarcasms  she  heard  continually  fiung 
against  him,  more  keenly  than  she  felt  what  was  false. 

But  it  was  an  illumination  that  made  all  life  look  ghastly 
to  her.  Where  were  the  beings  to  whom  she  could  cliug,  with 
whom  she  could  work  and  endure,  with  the  belief  that  she  was 
working  for  the  right  ?  On  the  side  from  which  moral  energy 
came  lay  a  fanaticism  from  which  she  was  shrinking  with 
newly  startled  repulsion ;  on  the  side  to  which  she  was  drawn 
by  affection  and  memory,  there  was  the  presentiment  of  some 
secret  plotting,  which  her  judgment  told  her  would  not  be 
unfairly  called  crime.  And  still  surmounting  every  other 
thought  was  the  dread  inspired  by  Tito’s  hints,  lest  that  pre¬ 
sentiment  should  be  converted  into  knowledge,  in  such  a  way 
that  she  would  be  torn  by  irreconcilable  claims. 

Calmness  would  not  come  even  on  the  altar-steps ;  it  would 
not  come  from  looking  at  the  serene  picture  where  the  saint, 
writing  in  the  rocky  solitude,  was  being  visited  by  faces  with 
celestial  peace  in  them.  Bomola  was  in  the  hard  press  of 
human  difficulties,  and  that  rocky  solitude  was  too  far  off. 
She  rose  from  her  knees  that  she  might  hasten  to  her  sick 
people  in  the  courtyard,  and  by  some  immediate  beneficent 
action,  revive  that  sense  of  worth  in  life  which  at  this  moment 
was  unfed  by  any  wider  faith.  But  when  she  turned  round, 
she  found  herself  face  to  face  with  a  man  who  was  standing 
only  two  yards  off  her.  The  man  was  Baldassarre. 


ON  SAN  MINIATO 


69 


CHAPTER  LIII. 

ON  SAN  MINIATO. 

"1  WOULD  speak  with  you,”  said  Baldassarre,  as  Romola 
looked  at  him  in  silent  expectation.  It  was  plain  that  he  had 
followed  her,  and  had  been  waiting  for  her.  She  was  going 
at  last  to  know  the  secret  about  him, 

‘•Yes,”  she  said,  with  the  same  sort  of  submission  that  she 
might  have  shown  under  an  imposed  penance.  “  But  you 
wish  to  go  where  no  one  can  hear  us  ?  ” 

“  Where  he  will  not  come  upon  us,”  said  Baldassarre,  turn¬ 
ing  and  glancing  behind  him  timidly.  “Out  —  in  the  air  — 
away  from  the  streets.” 

“  I  sometimes  go  to  San  Miniato  at  this  hour,”  said  Romola. 
“  If  you  like,  I  will  go  now,  and  you  can  follow  me.  It  is 
far,  but  we  can  be  solitary  there.” 

He  nodded  assent,  and  Romola  set  out.  To  some  women  it 
might  have  seemed  an  alarming  risk  to  go  to  a  comparatively 
solitary  spot  with  a  man  who  had  some  of  the  outward  hgns 
of  that  madness  which  Tito  attributed  to  him.  But  Romola 
was  not  given  to  personal  fears,  and  she  was  glad  of  the  dis¬ 
tance  that  interposed  some  delay  before  another  blow  fell  on 
her.  The  afternoon  was  far  advanced,  and  the  sun  was  al¬ 
ready  low  in  the  west,  when  she  paused  on  some  rough  ground 
in  the  shadow  of  the  cypress-trunks,  and  looked  round  for 
Baldassarre.,  He  was  not  far  off,  but  when  he  reached  her,  he 
was  glad  to  sink  down  on  an  edge  of  stony  earth.  His  thick-set 
frame  had  no  longer  the  sturdy  vigor  which  belonged  to  it  when 
he  first  appeared  with  the  rope  round  him  in  the  Duomo ;  and 
under  the  transient  tremor  caused  by  the  exertion  of  walking 
up  the  hill,  his  eyes  seemed  to  have  a  more  helpless  vagueness. 

“  The  hill  is  steep,”  said  Romola,  with  compassionate  gentle¬ 
ness,  seating  herself  by  him.  “  And  I  fear  you  have  been 
weakened  by  want  ?  ” 


I 


70 


ROMOLA. 


He  turned  his  head  and  fixed  his  eyes  on  her  in  silencesj 
unable,  now  the  moment  of  speech  was  come,  to  seize  the 
words  that  would  convey  the  thought  he  wanted  to  utter :  and 
she  remained  as  motionless  as  she  could,  lest  he  should  sup¬ 
pose  her  impatient.  He  looked  like  nothing  higher  than  a 
common-bred,  neglected  old  man ;  but  she  was  used  now  to  be 
very  near  to  such  people,  and  to  think  a  great  deal  about  their 
troubles.  Gradually  his  glance  gathered  a  more  definite  ex¬ 
pression,  and  at  last  he  said  with  abrupt  emphasis  — 

“  Ah  !  you  would  have  been  my  daughter  !  ” 

The  swift  flush  came  in  Eomola’s  face  and  went  back  again 
as  swiftly,  leaving  her  with  white  lips  a  little  apart,  like  a 
marble  image  of  horror.  For  her  mind,  the  revelation  was 
made.  She  divined  the  facts  that  lay  behind  that  single  word, 
and  in  the  first  moment  there  could  be  no  check  to  the  impul¬ 
sive  belief  which  sprang  from  her  keen  experience  of  Tito’s 
nature.  The  sensitive  response  of  her  face  was  a  stimulus  to 
Baldassarre ;  for  the  first  time  his  words  had  wrought  their 
right  effect.  He  went  on  with  gathering  eagerness  and  firm¬ 
ness,  laying  his  hand  on  her  arm. 

“You  are  a  woman  of  proud  blood  —  is  it  not  true  ?  You 
go  to  hear  the  preacher ;  you  hate  baseness  —  baseness  that 
smiles  and  triumphs.  You  hate  your  husband  ?  ” 

“  Oh,  God  !  were  you  really  his  father  ?  ”  said  Eomola,  in  a 
low  voice,  too  entirely  possessed  by  the  images  of  the  past  to 
take  any  note  of  Baldassarre’s  question.  “Or  was  it  as  he 
said  ?  Did  you  take  him  when  he  was  little  ?  ” 

“  Ah,  you  believe  me  —  you  know  what  he  is!”  said  Bal¬ 
dassarre,  exultingly,  tightening  the  pressure  on  her  arm,  as  if 
the  contact  gave  him  power.  “  You  will  help  me  ?  ” 

“Yes,”  said  Eomola,  not  interpreting  the  words  as  he 
meant  them.  She  laid  her  palm  gently  on  the  rough  hand 
that  grasped  her  arm,  and  the  tears  came  to  her  eyes  as  she 
looked  at  liim.  “Oh,  it  is  piteous!  Tell  me  —  you  were  a 
great  scholar  ;  you  taught  him.  How  is  it  ?  ” 

She  broke  off.  Tito’s  allegation  of  this  man’s  madness  had 
come  across  her ;  and  where  were  the  signs  even  of  past  re¬ 
finement  ?  But  she  had  the  self-command  not  to  move  her 


ON  SAN  MINIATO.  7l 

hand.  She  sat  perfectly  still,  waiting  to  listen  with  new 
caution. 

“  It  is  gone  !  —  it  is  all  gone  !  ”  said  Baldassarre  ;  “  and 
they  would  not  believe  me,  because  he  lied,  and  said  I  was 
mad;  and  they  had  me  dragged  to  prison.  And  I  am  old  — 
my  mind  will  not  come  back.  And  the  world  is  against  me.” 

He  paused  a  moment,  and  his  eyes  sank  as  if  he  were  under 
a  wave  of  despondency.  Then  he  looked  up  at  her  again,  and 
said  with  renewed  eagerness  — 

“  But  you  are  not  against  me.  He  made  you  love  him,  and 
he  has  been  false  to  you ;  and  you  hate  him.  Yes,  he  made 
me  love  him  :  he  was  beautiful  and  gentle,  and  I  was  a  lonely 
man.  I  took  him  when  they  were  beating  him.  He  slept  in 
my  bosom  when  he  was  little,  and  I  watched  him  as  he  grew, 
and  gave  him  all  my  knowledge,  and  everything  that  was  mine 
I  meant  to  be  his.  I  had  many  things ;  money,  and  books, 
and  gems.  He  had  my  gems  —  he  sold  them  ;  and  he  left 
me  in  slavery.  He  never  came  to  seek  me,  and  when  I  came 
back  poor  and  in  misery,  he  denied  me.  He  said  I  was  a 
madman.” 

“  He  told  us  his  father  was  dead  —  was  drowned,”  said 
Bomola,  faintly.  “  Surely  he  must  have  believed  it  then. 
Oh  !  he  could  not  have  been  so  base  then  !  ” 

A  vision  had  risen  of  what  Tito  was  to  her  in  those  first 
days  when  she  thought  no  more  of  wrong  in  him  than  a  child 
thinks  of  poison  in  flowers.  The  yearning  regret  that  lay  in 
that  memory  brought  some  relief  from  the  tension  of  horror. 
With  one  great  sob  the  tears  rushed  forth. 

“  Ah,  you  are  young,  and  the  tears  come  easily,”  said  Bal¬ 
dassarre,  with  some  impatience.  But  tears  are  no  good ;  they 
only  put  out  the  fire  within,  and  it  is  the  fire  that  works. 
Tears  will  hinder  us.  Listen  to  me.” 

Bomola  turned  towards  him  with  a  slight  start.  Again  the 
possibility  of  his  madness  had  darted  through  her  mind,  and 
checked  the  rush  of  belief.  If,  after  all,  this  man  were  only 
a  mad  assassin  ?  But  her  deep  belief  in  this  story  still  lay 
behind,  and  it  was  more  in  sympathy  than  in  fear  that  sha 
avoided  the  risk  of  paining  him  by  any  show  of  doubt. 


72 


ROMOLA. 


‘^Tell  me,”  she  said,  as  gently  as  she  could,  “how  did  you 
lose  your  memory  —  your  scholarship.” 

“I  was  ill.  I  can’t  tell  how  long  —  it  was  a  blank.  I 
remember  nothing,  only  at  last  I  was  sitting  in  the  sun  among 
the  stones,  and  everything  else  was  darkness.  And  slowly, 
and  by  degrees,  I  felt  something  besides  that :  a  longing  for 
something  —  I  did  not  know  what  —  that  never  came.  And 
when  I  was  in  the  ship  on  the  waters  I  began  to  know  what  I 
longed  for  ;  it  was  for  the  Boy  to  come  back  —  it  was  to  find 
all  my  thoughts  again,  for  I  was  locked  away  outside  them 
all.  And  I  am  outside  now.  I  feel  nothing  but  a  wall  and 
darkness.” 

Baldassarre  had  become  dreamy  again,  and  sank  into  silence, 
resting  his  head  between  his  hands  :  and  again  Bomola’s  be¬ 
lief  in  him  had  submerged  all  cautioning  doubts.  The  pity 
with  which  she  dwelt  on  his  words  seemed  like  the  revival  of 
an  old  pang.  Had  she  not  daily  seen  how  her  father  missed 
Dino  and  the  future  he  had  dreamed  of  in  that  son  ? 

“It  all  came  back  once,”  Baldassarre  went  on  presently. 
“  I  was  master  of  everything.  I  saw  all  the  world  again,  and 
my  gems,  and  my  books;  and  I  thought  I  had  him  in  my 
power,  and  I  went  to  expose  him  where  —  where  the  lights 
were  and  the  trees ;  and  he  lied  again,  and  said  I  was  mad, 
and  they  dragged  me  away  to  prison.  .  .  .  Wickedness  is 
strong;  and  he  wears  armor.” 

The  fierceness  had  flamed  up  again.  He  spoke  with  his 
former  intensity,  and  again  he  grasped  Bomola’s  arm. 

“  But  you  will  help  me  ?  He  has  been  false  to  you  too. 
He  has  another  wife,  and  she  has  children.  He  makes  her 
believe  he  is  her  husband,  and  she  is  a  foolish,  helpless  thing. 
I  will  show  you  where  she  lives.” 

The  first  shock  that  passed  through  Bomola  was  visibly  one 
of  anger.  The  woman’s  sense  of  indignity  was  inevitably  fore¬ 
most.  Baldassarre  instinctively  felt  her  in  sympathy  with  him. 

“You  hate  him,”  he  went  on.  “Is  it  not  true?  There  is 
no  love  between  you ;  I  know  that.  I  know  women  can  hate ; 
and  you  have  proud  blood.  You  hate  falseness,  and  you  can 
love  revenge.** 


ON  SAN  MINIATO. 


.73 


Eomola  sat  paralyzed  by  the  shock  of  conflicting  feeling. 
She  was  not  conscious  of  the  grasp  that  was  bruising  her 
tender  arm. 

‘‘You  shall  contrive  it/’  said  Baldassarre,  presently,  in  an 
eager  whisper.  “  I  have  learned  by  heart  that  you  are  his 
rightful  wife.  You  are  a  noble  woman.  You  go  to  hear  the 
preacher  of  vengeance;  you  will  help  justice.  But  you  will 
think  for  me.  My  mind  goes  —  everything  goes  sometimes  — 
all  but  the  fire.  The  Are  is  God  :  it  is  justice  :  it  will  not  die. 
You  believe  that  —  is  it  not  true  ?  If  they  will  not  hang  him 
for  robbing  me,  you  will  take  away  his  armor  —  you  will  make 
him  go  without  it,  and  I  will  stab  him.  I  have  a  knife,  and 
my  arm  is  still  strong  enough.” 

He  put  his  hand  under  his  tunic,  and  reached  out  the  hidden 
knife,  feeling  the  edge  abstractedly,  as  if  he  needed  the  sen^ 
sation  to  keep  alive  his  ideas. 

It  seemed  to  Bomola  as  if  every  fresh  hour  of  her  life  were 
to  become  more  difficult  than  the  last.  Her  judgment  was  too 
vigorous  and  rapid  for  her  to  fall  into  the  mistake  of  using 
futile  deprecatory  words  to  a  man  in  Baldassarre’s  state  of 
mind.  She  chose  not  to  answer  his  last  speech.  She  would 
win  time  for  his  excitement  to  allay  itself  by  asking  some¬ 
thing  else  that  she  cared  to  know.  She  spoke  rather  tremu¬ 
lously  — 

“You  say  she  is  foolish  and  helpless  —  that  other  wife  — 
and  believes  him  to  be  her  real  husband.  Perhaps  he  is : 
perhaps  he  married  her  before  he  married  me.” 

“  I  cannot  tell,”  said  Baldassarre,  pausing  in  that  action  of 
feeling  the  knife,  and  looking  bewildered.  “  I  can  remember 
no  more.  I  only  know  where  she  lives.  You  shall  see  her. 
I  will  take  you ;  but  not  now,”  he  added  hurriedly,  “  he  may 
be  there.  The  night  is  coming  on.” 

“It  is  true,”  said  Bomola,  starting  up  with  a  sudden  con¬ 
sciousness  that  the  sun  had  set  and  the  hills  were  darkening ; 
“  but  you  will  come  and  take  me  —  when  ?  ” 

“  In  the  morning,”  said  Baldassarre,  dreaming  that  she,  too, 
wanted  to  hurry  to  her  vengeance. 

“  Come  to  me,  then,  where  you  came  to  me  to-day,  in  the 


74 


ROMOLA. 


church.  I  will  be  there  at  ten ;  and  if  you  are  not  there,  I 
will  go  again  towards  mid-day.  Can  you  remember  ? 

“Mid-day,”  said  Baldassarre  —  “only  mid-day.  The  same 
place,  and  mid-day.  And,  after  that,”  he  added,  rising  and 
grasping  her  arm  again  with  his  left  hand,  while  he  held  the 
knife  in  his  right ;  “  we  will  have  our  revenge.  He  shall  feel 
the  sharp  edge  of  justice.  The  world  is  against  me,  but  you 
will  help  me.” 

“  I  would  help  you  in  other  ways,”  said  E-omola,  making  a 
first,  timid  effort  to  dispel  his  illusion  about  her.  “  I  fear  you 
are  in  want;  you  have  to  labor,  and  get  little.  I  should  like 
to  bring  you  comforts,  and  make  you  feel  again  that  there  is 
some  one  who  cares  for  you.” 

“  Talk  no  more  about  that,”  said  Baldassarre,  fiercely.  “  I 
will  have  nothing  else.  Help  me  to  wring  one  drop  of  ven¬ 
geance  on  this  side  of  the  grave.  I  have  nothing  but  my 
knife.  It  is  sharp ;  but  there  is  a  moment  after  the  thrust 
when  men  see  the  face  of  death,  —  and  it  shall  be  my  face 
that  he  will  see.” 

He  loosed  his  hold,  and  sank  down  again  in  a  sitting  pos¬ 
ture.  E-omola  felt  helpless :  she  must  defer  all  intentions  till 
the  morrow. 

“  Mid-day,  then,”  she  said,  in  a  distinct  voice. 

“Yes,”  he  answered,  with  an  air  of  exhaustion.  “Go;  I 
will  rest  here.” 

She  hastened  away.  Turning  at  the  last  spot  whence  he 
was  likely  to  be  in  sight,  she  saw  him  seated  still. 


CHAPTER  LIV. 

THE  EVENING  AND  THE  MORNING. 

Eomola  had  a  purpose  in  her  mind  as  she  was  hastening 
away  ;  a  purpose  which  had  been  growing  through  the  after¬ 
noon  hours  like  a  side-stream,  rising  higher  and  higher  along 


THE  EVENING  AND  THE  MORNING. 


75 


with  the  main  current.  It  was  less  a  resolve  than  a  necessity 
of  her  feeling.  Heedless  of  the  darkening  streets,  and  not 
caring  to  call  for  Maso’s  slow  escort,  she  hurried  across  the 
bridge  where  the  river  showed  itself  black  before  the  distant 
dying  red,  and  took  the  most  direct  way  to  the  Old  Palace. 
She  might  encounter  her  husband  there.  Ho  matter.  She 
could  not  weigh  probabilities ;  she  must  discharge  her  heart. 
She  did  not  know  what  she  passed  in  the  pillared  court  or  up 
the  wide  stairs  ;  she  only  knew  that  she  asked  an  usher  for 
the  Gonfaloniere,  giving  her  name,  and  begging  to  be  shown 
into  a  private  room. 

She  was  not  left  long  alone  with  the  frescoed  figures  and 
the  newly  lit  tapers.  Soon  the  door  opened,  and  Bernardo 
del  Nero  entered,  still  carrying  his  white  head  erect  above  his 
silk  lucco. 

“  Eomola,  my  child,  what  is  this  ?  ”  he  said,  in  a  tone  of 
anxious  surprise  as  he  closed  the  door. 

She  had  uncovered  her  head  and  went  towards  him  without 
speaking.  He  laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulder,  and  held  her 
a  little  way  from  him  that  he  might  see  her  better.  Her 
face  was  haggard  from  fatigue  and  long  agitation,  her  hair 
had  rolled  down  in  disorder  ;  but  there  was  an  excitement  in 
her  eyes  that  seemed  to  have  triumphed  over  the  bodily 
consciousness. 

“  What  has  he  done  ?  ”  said  Bernardo,  abruptly.  “  Tell  me 
everything,  child  ;  throw  away  pride.  I  am  your  father.” 

“  It  is  not  about  myself  —  nothing  about  myself,”  said 
Romola,  hastily.  ‘‘Dearest  godfather,  it  is  about  you.  I 
have  heard  things  —  some  I  cannot  tell  you.  But  you  are 
in  danger  in  the  palace ;  you  are  in  danger  everywhere. 
There  are  fanatical  men  who  would  harm  you,  and  —  and 
there  are  traitors.  Trust  nobody.  If  you  trust,  you  will  be 
betrayed.” 

Bernardo  smiled.  , 

“  Have  you  worked  yourself  up  into  this  agitation,  my  poor 
child,”  he  said,  raising  his  hand  to  her  head  and  patting  it 
gently,  “to  tell  such  old  truth  as  that  to  an  old  man  like 


76 


ROMOLA. 


“  Oh,  no,  no !  they  are  not  old  truths  that  I  mean,”  said 
Romola,  pressing  her  clasped  hands  painfully  together,  as  if 
that  action  would  help  her  to  suppress  what  must  not  be  told. 
“  They  are  fresh  things  that  I  know,  but  cannot  tell.  Dearest 
godfather,  you  know  I  am  not  foolish.  I  would  not  come  to 
you  without  reason.  Is  it  too  late  to  warn  you  against  any 
one,  every  one  who  seems  to  be  working  on  your  side  ?  Is  it 
too  late  to  say,  ‘  Go  to  your  villa  and  keep  away  in  the  country 
when  these  three  more  days  of  office  are  over  ?  ’  Oh,  God ! 
perhaps  it  is  too  late  !  and  if  any  harm  comes  to  you,  it  will 
be  as  if  I  had  done  it !  ” 

The  last  words  had  burst  from  Romola  involuntarily  :  a 
long-stifled  feeling  had  found  spasmodic  utterance.  But  she 
herself  was  startled  and  arrested. 

“  I  mean,”  she  added,  hesitatingly,  ‘‘  I  know  nothing  posi¬ 
tive.  I  only  know  what  fills  me  with  fears.” 

“  Poor  child !  ”  said  Bernardo,  looking  at  her  with  quiet 
penetration  for  a  moment  or  two.  Then  he  said  :  Go, 
Romola  —  go  home  and  rest.  These  fears  may  be  only  big 
ugly  shadows  of  something  very  little  and  harmless.  Even 
traitors  must  see  their  interest  in  betraying ;  the  rats  will  run 
where  they  smell  the  cheese,  and  there  is  no  knowing  yet 
which  way  the  scent  will  come.” 

He  paused,  and  turned  away  his  eyes  from  her  with  an  air 
of  abstraction,  till,  with  a  slow  shrug,  he  added  — 

“  As  for  warnings,  they  are  of  no  use  to  me,  child.  I  enter 
into  no  plots,  but  I  never  forsake  my  colors.  If  I  march 
abreast  with  obstinate  men,  who  will  rush  on  guns  and  pikes, 
I  must  share  the  consequences.  Let  us  say  no  more  about 
that.  I  have  not  many  years  left  at  the  bottom  of  my  sack 
for  them  to  rob  me  of.  Go,  child  ;  go  home  and  rest.” 

He  put  his  hand  on  her  head  again  caressingly,  and  she 
could  not  help  clinging  to  his  arm,  and  pressing  her  brow 
against  his  shoulder.  Heq  godfather’s  caress  seemed  the  last 
thing  that  was  left  to  her  out  of  that  young  filial  life,  which 
now  looked  so  happy  to  her  even  in  its  troubles,  for  they  were 
troubles  untainted  by  anything  hateful. 

“Is  silence  best,  my  Romola?  ”  said  the  old  man. 


THE  EVENING  AND  THE  MORNING. 


77 


“  Yes,  now ;  but  I  cannot  tell  whether  it  always  will  be,” 
she  answered,  hesitatingly,  raising  her  head  with  an  appealing 
look. 

“Well,  you  have  a  father’s  ear  while  I  am  above  ground” 
—  he  lifted  the  black  drapery  and  folded  it  round  her  head, 
adding  —  “  and  a  father’s  home  ;  remember  that.”  Then 
opening  the  door,  he  said ;  “  There,  hasten  away.  You  are 
like  a  black  ghost ;  you  will  be  safe  enough.” 

When  Romola  fell  asleep  that  night,  she  slept  deep.  Agita¬ 
tion  had  reached  its  limits ;  she  must  gather  strength  before 
she  could  suffer  more ;  and,  in  spite  of  rigid  habit,  she  slept 
on  far  beyond  sunrise. 

When  she  awoke,  it  was  to  the  sound  of  guns.  Piero  de’ 
Medici,  with  thirteen  hundred  men  at  his  back,  was  before  the 
gate  that  looks  towards  Rome. 

So  much  Romola  learned  from  Maso,  with  many  circum¬ 
stantial  additions  of  dubious  quality.  A  countryman  had 
come  in  and  alarmed  the  Signoria  before  it  was  light,  else  the 
city  would  have  been  taken  by  surprise.  His  master  was  not 
in  the  house,  having  been  summoned  to  the  Palazzo  long  ago. 
She  sent  out  the  old  man  again,  that  he  might  gather  news, 
while  she  went  up  to  the  loggia  from  time  to  time  to  try  and 
discern  any  signs  of  the  dreaded  entrance  having  been  made, 
or  of  its  having  been  effectively  repelled.  Maso  brought  her 
word  that  the  great  piazza  was  full  of  armed  men,  and  that 
many  of  the  chief  citizens  suspected  as  friends  of  the  Medici 
had  been  summoned  to  the  palace  and  detained  there.  Some 
of  the  people  seemed  not  to  mind  whether  Piero  got  in  or  not, 
and  some  said  the  Signoria  itself  had  invited  him ;  but  how¬ 
ever  that  might  be,  they  were  giving  him  an  ugly  welcome  ; 
and  the  soldiers  from  Pisa  were  coming  against  him. 

In  her  memory  of  those  morning  hours,  there  were  not  many 
things  that  Romola  could  distinguish  as  actual  external  expe¬ 
riences  standing  markedly  out  above  the  tumultuous  waves  of 
retrospect  and  anticipation.  She  knew  that  she  had  really 
walked  to  the  Badia  by  the  appointed  time  in  spite  of  street 
alarms ;  she  knew  that  she  had  waited  there  in  vain.  And 
the  scene  she  had  witnessed  when  she  came  out  of  the  church, 


78 


ROMOLA. 


and  stood  watching  on  the  steps  while  the  doors  were  being 
closed  behind  her  for  the  afternoon  interval,  always  came  back 
to  her  like  a  remembered  waking. 

There  was  a  change  in  the  faces  and  tones  of  the  people, 
armed  and  unarmed,  who  were  pausing  or  hurrying  along  the 
streets.  The  guns  were  firing  again,  but  the  sound  only  pro¬ 
voked  laughter.  She  soon  knew  the  cause  of  the  change. 
Piero  de’  Medici  and  his  horsemen  had  turned  their  backs  on 
Florence,  and  were  galloping  as  fast  as  they  could  along  the 
Siena  road.  She  learned  this  from  a  substantial  shopkeeping 
Piagnone,  who  had  not  yet  laid  down  his  pike. 

“  It  is  true,”  he  ended,  with  a  certain  bitterness  in  his  em¬ 
phasis.  ‘‘  Piero  is  gone,  but  there  are  those  left  behind  who 
were  in  the  secret  of  his  coming  —  we  all  know  that ;  and  if 
the  new  Signoria  does  its  duty  we  shall  soon  know  who  they 
are.” 

The  words  darted  through  Romola  like  a  sharp  spasm ;  but 
the  evil  they  foreshadowed  was  not  yet  close  upon  her,  and  as 
she  entered  her  home  again,  her  most  pressing  anxiety  was 
the  possibility  that  she  had  lost  sight  for  a  long  while  of 
Baldassarre. 


CHAPTER  LV. 

WAITING. 

The  lengthening  sunny  days  went  on  without  bringing 
either  what  Romola  most  desired  or  what  she  most  dreaded. 
They  brought  no  sign  from  Baldassarre,  and,  in  spite  of  special 
watch  on  the  part  of  the  Government,  no  revelation  of  the 
suspected  conspiracy.  But  they  brought  other  things  which 
touched  her  closely,  and  bridged  the  phantom-crowded  space 
of  anxiety  with  active  sympathy  in  immediate  trial.  They 
brought  the  spreading  Plague  and  the  Excommunication  of 
Savonarola. 

Both  these  events  tended  to  arrest  her  incipient  alienation 


WAITING. 


79 


from  the  Frate,  and  to  rivet  again  her  attachment  to  the  man 
who  had  opened  to  her  the  new  life  of  duty,  and  who  seemed 
now  to  be  worsted  in  the  fight  for  principle  against  profligacy. 
For  Eomola  could  not  carry  from  day  to  day  into  the  abodes 
of  pestilence  and  misery  the  sublime  excitement  of  a  gladness 
that,  since  such  anguish  existed,  she  too  existed  to  make  some 
of  the  anguish  less  bitter,  without  remembering  that  she  owed 
this  transcendent  moral  life  to  Fra  Girolamo.  She  could  not 
witness  the  silencing  and  excommunication  of  a  man  whose 
distinction  from  the  great  mass  of  the  clergy  lay,  not  in  any 
heretical  belief,  not  in  his  superstitions,  but  in  the  energy  with 
which  he  sought  to  make  the  Christian  life  a  reality,  without 
feeling  herself  drawn  strongly  to  his  side. 

Far  on  in  the  hot  days  of  June  the  Excommunication,  for 
some  weeks  arrived  from  Eome,  was  solemnly  published  in 
the  Duomo.  Eomola  went  to  witness  the  scene,  that  the 
resistance  it  inspired  might  invigorate  that  sympathy  with 
Savonarola  which  was  one  source  of  her  strength.  It  was  in 
memorable  contrast  with  the  scene  she  had  been  accustomed 
to  witness  there. 

Instead  of  upturned  citizen-faces  filling  the  vast  area  under 
the  morning  light,  the  youngest  rising  amphitheatre-wise 
towards  the  walls,  and  making  a  garland  of  hope  around  the 
memories  of  age  —  instead  of  the  mighty  voice  thrilling  all 
hearts  with  the  sense  of  great  things,  visible  and  invisible,  to 
be  struggled  for  —  there  were  the  bare  walls  at  evening  made 
more  sombre  by  the  glimmer  of  tapers  ;  there  was  the  black 
and  gray  flock  of  monks  and  secular  clergy  with  bent,  unex¬ 
pectant  faces  ;  there  was  the  occasional  tinkling  of  little  bells 
in  the  pauses  of  a  monotonous  voice  reading  a  sentence  which 
had  already  been  long  hanging  up  in  the  churches  ;  and  at  last 
there  was  the  extinction  of  the  tapers,  and  the  slow,  shuffling 
tread  of  monkish  feet  departing  in  the  dim  silence. 

Eomola’s  ardor  on  the  side  of  the  Frate  was  doubly  strength¬ 
ened  by  the  gleeful  triumph  she  saw  in  hard  and  coarse  faces, 
and  by  the  fear-stricken  confusion  in  the  faces  and  speech  of 
many  among  his  strongly  attached  friends.  The  question 
where  the  duty  of  obedience  ends,  and  the  duty  of  resistance 


80 


ROMOLA.  ■ 


begins,  could  in  no  case  be  an  easy  one ;  but  it  was  made  over¬ 
whelmingly  difficult  by  the  belief  that  the  Church  was  ■—  not 
a  compromise  of  parties  to  secure  a  more  or  less  approximate 
justice  in  the  appropriation  of  funds,  but — a  living  organism, 
instinct  with  Divine  power  to  bless  and  to  curse.  To  most  of 
the  pious  Florentines,  who  had  hitherto  felt  no  doubt  in  their 
adherence  to  the  Frate,  that  belief  in  the  Divine  potency  of 
the  Church  was  not  an  embraced  opinion,  it  was  an  inalienable 
impression,  like  the  concavity  of  the  blue  firmament ;  and  the 
boldness  of  Savonarola’s  written  arguments  that  the  Excom¬ 
munication  was  unjust,  and  that,  being  unjust,  it  was  not  valid, 
only  made  them  tremble  the  more,  as  a  defiance  cast  at  a  mys¬ 
tic  image,  against  whose  subtle  immeasurable  power  there  was 
neither  weapon  nor  defence. 

But  Romola,  whose  mind  had  not  been  allowed  to  draw  its 
early  nourishment  from  the  traditional  associations  of  the 
Christian  community  in  which  her  father  had  lived  a  life 
apart,  felt  her  relation  to  the  Church  only  through  Savona¬ 
rola  ;  his  moral  force  had  been  the  only  authority  to  which 
she  had  bowed  ;  and  in  his  excommunication  she  only  saw  the 
menace  of  hostile  vice :  on  one  side  she  saw  a  man  whose  life 
was  devoted  to  the  ends  of  public  virtue  and  spiritual  purity, 
and  on  the  other  the  assault  of  alarmed  selfishness,  headed  by 
a  lustful,  greedy,  lying,  and  murderous  old  man,  once  called 
Rodrigo  Borgia,  and  now  lifted  to  the  pinnacle  of  infamy  as 
Pope  Alexander  the  Sixth.  The  finer  shades  of  fact  which 
soften  the  edge  of  such  antitheses  are  not  apt  to  be  seen 
except  by  neutrals,  who  are  not  distressed  to  discern  some 
folly  in  martyrs  and  some  judiciousness  in  the  men  who  burnt 
them. 

But  Romola  required  a  strength  that  neutrality  could  not 
give  ;  and  this  Excommunication,  which  simplified  and  en¬ 
nobled  the  resistant  position  of  Savonarola  by  bringing  into 
prominence  its  wider  relations,  seemed  to  come  to  her  like  a 
rescue  from  the  threatening  isolation  of  criticism  and  doubt. 
The  Frate  was  now  withdrawn  from  that  smaller  antagonism 
against  Florentine  enemies  into  which  he  continually  fell  in 
the  unchecked  excitement  of  the  pulpit,  and  presented  him 


WAITING. 


81 


self  simply  as  appealing  to  tlie  Christian  world  against  a 
vicious  exercise  of  ecclesiastical  power.  He  was  a  standard- 
bearer  leaping  into  the  breach.  Life  never  seems  so  clear  and 
easy  as  when  the  heart  is  beating  faster  at  the  sight  of  some 
generous  self-risking  deed.  We  feel  no  doubt  then  what  is  the 
highest  prize  the  soul  can  win ;  we  almost  believe  in  our  own 
power  to  attain  it.  By  a  new  current  of  such  enthusiasm 
Eomola  was  helped  through  these  difficult  summer  days.  She 
had  ventured  on  no  words  to  Tito  that  would  apprise  him  of 
her  late  interview  with  Baldassarre,  and  the  revelation  he  had 
made  to  her.  What  would  such  agitating,  difficult  words  win 
from  him  ?  No  admission  of  the  truth ;  nothing,  probably, 
but  a  cool  sarcasm  about  her  sympathy  with  his  assassin. 
Baldassarre  was  evidently  helpless :  the  thing  to  be  feared 
was,  not  that  he  should  injure  Tito,  but  that  Tito,  coming  upon 
his  traces,  should  carry  out  some  new  scheme  for  ridding  him¬ 
self  of  the  injured  man  who  was  a  haunting  dread  to  him. 
Eomola  felt  that  she  could  do  nothing  decisive  until  she  had 
seen  Baldassarre  again,  and  learned  the  full  truth  about  that 
“  other  wife  ”  —  learned  whether  she  were  the  wife  to  whom 
Tito  was  first  bound. 

The  possibilities  about  that  other  wife,  which  involved  the 
worst  wound  to  her  hereditary  pride,  mingled  themselves  as  a 
newly  embittering  suspicion  with  the  earliest  memories  of  her 
illusory  love,  eating  away  the  lingering  associations  of  tender¬ 
ness  with  the  past  image  of  her  husband  ;  and  her  irresistible 
belief  in  the  rest  of  Baldassarre’s  revelation  made  her  shrink 
from  Tito  with  a  horror  which  would  perhaps  have  urged  some 
passionate  speech  in  spite  of  herself  if  he  had  not  been  more 
than  usually  absent  from  home.  Like  many  of  the  wealthier 
citizens  in  that  time  of  pestilence,  he  spent  the  intervals  of 
business  chiefly  in  the  country  :  the  agreeable  Melema  was 
welcome  at  many  villas,  and  since  Eomola  had  refused  to  leave 
the  city,  he  had  no  need  to  provide  a  country  residence  of  his 
own. 

But  at  last,  in  the  later  days  of  July,  the  alleviation  of 
those  public  troubles  which  had  absorbed  her  activity  and 
much  of  her  thought,  left  Eomola  to  a  less  counteracted  sense 


VOL.  '  I 


82 


ROMOLA. 


of  her  personal  lot.  The  Plague  had  almost  disappeared,  and 
the  position  of  Savonarola  was  made  more  hopeful  by  a 
favorable  magistracy,  who  were  writing  urgent  vindicatory 
letters  to  Rome  on  his  behalf,  entreating  the  withdrawal  of 
the  Excommunication. 

Romola’s  healthy  and  vigorous  frame  was  undergoing  the 
reaction  of  languor  inevitable  after  continuous  excitement  and 
over-exertion  ;  but  her  mental  restlessness  would  not  allow 
her  to  remain  at  home  without  peremptory  occupation,  except 
during  the  sultry  hours.  In  the  cool  of  the  morning  and 
evening  she  walked  out  constantly,  varying  her  direction  as 
much  as  possible,  with  the  vague  hope  that  if  Baldassarre 
were  still  alive  she  might  encounter  him.  Perhaps  some  ill¬ 
ness  had  brought  a  new  paralysis  of  memory,  and  he  had 
forgotten  where  she  lived  —  forgotten  even  her  existence. 
That  was  her  most  sanguine  explanation  of  his  non-appearance. 
The  explanation  she  felt  to  be  most  probable  was,  that  he  had 
died  of  the  Plague. 


CHAPTER  LVL 

THE  OTHER  WIFE. 

The  morning  warmth  was  already  beginning  to  be  rather 
oppressive  to  Romola,  when,  after  a  walk  along  by  the  walls 
on  her  way  from  San  Marco,  she  turned  towards  the  intersect¬ 
ing  streets  again  at  the  gate  of  Santa  Croce. 

The  Borgo  La  Croce  was  so  still,  that  she  listened  to  her 
own  footsteps  on  the  pavement  in  the  sunny  silence,  until,  on 
approaching  a  bend  in  the  street,  she  saw,  a  few  yards  before 
her,  a  little  child  not  more  than  three  years  old,  with  no  other 
clothing  than  his  white  shirt,  pause  from  a  waddling  run  and 
look  around  him.  In  the  first  moment  of  coming  nearer  she 
could  only  see  his  back  —  a  boy’s  back,  square  and  sturdy, 
with  a  cloud  of  reddish-brown  curls  above  it ;  but  in  the  next 
he  turned  towards  her,  and  she  could  see  his  dark  eyes  wide 


THE  OTHER  WIFE. 


83 


with  tears,  and  his  lower  lip  pushed  up  and  trembling,  while 
his  fat  brown  fists  clutched  his  shirt  helplessly.  The  glimpse 
of  a  tall  black  figure  sending  a  shadow  over  him  brought  his 
bewildered  fear  to  a  climax,  and  a  loud  crying  sob  sent  the 
big  tears  rolling. 

Komola,  with  the  ready  maternal  instinct  which  was  one  hid¬ 
den  source  of  her  passionate  tenderness,  instantly  uncovered 
her  head,  and,  stooping  down  on  the  pavement,  put  her  arms 
round  him,  and  her  cheeks  against  his,  while  she  spoke  to  him 
in  caressing  tones.  At  first  his  sobs  were  only  the  louder, 
but  he  made  no  effort  to  get  away,  and  presently  the  outburst 
ceased  with  that  strange  abruptness  which  belongs  to  childish 
joys  and  griefs :  his  face  lost  its  distortion,  and  was  fixed  in 
in  open-mouthed  gaze  at  Eomola. 

“You  have  lost  yourself,  little  one,’’  she  said,  kissing  him. 
“Never  mind!  we  will  find  the  house  again.  Perhaps  mamma 
will  meet  us.” 

She  divined  that  he  had  made  his  escape  at  a  moment  when 
the  mother’s  eyes  were  turned  away  from  him,  and  thought  it 
likely  that  he  would  soon  be  followed. 

“  Oh,  what  a  heavy,  heavy  boy !  ”  she  said,  trying  to  lift 
him.  “I  cannot  carry  you.  Come,  then,  you  must  toddle 
back  by  my  side.” 

The  parted  lips  remained  motionless  in  awed  silence,  and 
one  brown  fist  still  clutched  the  shirt  with  as  much  tenacity 
as  ever ;  but  the  other  yielded  itself  quite  willingly  to  the 
wonderful  white  hand,  strong  but  soft. 

“You  have  a  mamma?”  said  Eomola,  as  they  set  out,  look¬ 
ing  down  at  the  boy  with  a  certain  yearning.  But  he  was 
mute.  A  girl  under  those  circumstances  might  perhaps  have 
chirped  abundantly ;  not  so  this  square-shouldered  little  man 
with  the  big  cloud  of  curls. 

He  was  awake  to  the  first  sign  of  his  whereabout,  however. 
At  the  turning  by  the  front  of  San  Ambrogio  he  dragged 
Romola  towards  it,  looking  up  at  her. 

“  Ah,  that  is  the  way  home,  is  it  ?  ”  she  said,  smiling  at 
him.  He  only  thrust  his  head  forward  and  pulled,  as  an  ad¬ 
monition  that  they  should  go  faster. 


84 


ROMOLA. 


There  was  still  another  turning  that  he  had  a  decided  opinion 
about,  and  then  Romola  found  herself  in  a  short  street  leading 
to  open  garden  ground.  It  was  in  front  of  a  house  at  the  end 
of  this  street  that  the  little  fellow  paused,  pulling  her  towards 
some  stone  stairs.  He  had  evidently  no  wish  for  her  to  loose 
his  hand,  and  she  would  not  have  been  willing  to  leave  him 
without  being  sure  that  she  was  delivering  him  to  his  friends. 
They  mounted  the  stairs,  seeing  but  dimly  in  that  sudden 
withdrawal  from  the  sunlight,  till,  at  the  final  landing-place, 
an  extra  stream  of  light  came  from  an  open  doorway.  Passing 
through  a  small  lobby,  they  came  to  another  open  door,  and 
there  Eomola  paused.  Her  approach  had  not  been  heard. 

On  a  low  chair  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room,  opposite  the 
light,  sat  Tessa,  with  one  hand  on  the  edge  of  the  cradle,  and 
her  head  hanging  a  little  on  one  side,  fast  asleep,  Hear  one 
of  the  windows,  with  her  back  turned  towards  the  door,  sat 
Monna  Lisa  at  her  work  of  preparing  salad,  in  deaf  uncon¬ 
sciousness.  There  was  only  an  instant  for  Pomola’s  eyes  to 
take  in  that  still  scene ;  for  Lillo  snatched  his  hand  away 
from  her  and  ran  up  to  his  mother’s  side,  not  making  any 
direct  effort  to  wake  her,  but  only  leaning  his  head  back 
against  her  arm,  and  surveying  Eomola  seriously  from  that 
distance. 

As  Lillo  pushed  against  her,  Tessa  opened  her  eyes,  and 
looked  up  in  bewilderment ;  but  her  glance  had  no  sooner 
rested  on  the  figure  at  the  opposite  doorway  than  she  started 
up,  blushed  deeply,  and  began  to  tremble  a  little,  neither 
speaking  nor  moving  forward. 

“  Ah !  we  have  seen  each  other  before,”  said  Eomola,  smil¬ 
ing,  and  coming  forward.  I  am  glad  it  was  your  little  boy. 
He  was  crying  in  the  street ;  I  suppose  he  had  run  away.  So 
we  walked  together  a  little  way,  and  then  he  knew  where  he 
was,  and  brought  me  here.  But  you  had  not  missed  him  ? 
That  is  well,  else  you  would  have  been  frightened.” 

The  shock  of  finding  that  Lillo  had  run  away  overcame  every 
other  feeling  in  Tessa  for  the  moment.  Her  color  went  again, 
and,  seizing  Lillo’s  arm,  she  ran  with  him  to  Monna  Lisa,  say- 
mg,  with  a  half  sob,  loud  in  the  old  woman’s  ear  — 


THE  OTHER  WIFE. 


85 


Oh,  Lisa,  you  are  wicked !  Why  will  you  stand  with 
your  back  to  the  door  ?  Lillo  ran  away  ever  so  far  into  the 
street.” 

“  Holy  Mother  !  ”  said  Monna  Lisa,  in  her  meek,  thick  tone, 
letting  the  spoon  fall  from  her  hands.  “Where  were  you, 
then  ?  I  thought  you  were  there,  and  had  your  eye  on  him.” 

“But  you  know  I  go  to  sleep  when  I  am  rocking,”  said 
Tessa,  in  pettish  remonstrance. 

“  Well,  well,  we  must  keep  the  outer  door  shut,  or  else  tie 
him  up,”  said  Monna  Lisa,  “  for  he  T1  be  as  cunning  as  Satan 
before  long,  and  that ’s  the  holy  truth.  But  how  came  he 
back,  then  ?  ” 

This  question  recalled  Tessa  to  the  consciousness  of  Bomola’s 
presence.  Without  answering,  she  turned  towards  her,  blush¬ 
ing  and  timid  again,  and  Monna  Lisa’s  eyes  followed  her  move¬ 
ment.  The  old  woman  made  a  low  reverence,  and  said  — 

“  Doubtless  the  most  noble  lady  brought  him  back.”  Then, 
advancing  a  little  nearer  to  Bomola,  she  added,  “  It ’s  my 
shame  for  him  to  have  been  found  with  only  his  shirt  on ;  but 
he  kicked,  and  would  n’t  have  his  other  clothes  on  this  morn¬ 
ing,  and  the  mother,  poor  thing,  will  never  hear  of  his  being 
beaten.  But  what ’s  an  old  woman  to  do  without  a  stick 
when  the  lad’s  legs  get  so  strong  ?  Let  your  nobleness  look 
at  his  legs.” 

Lillo,  conscious  that  his  legs  were  in  question,  pulled  his 
shirt  up  a  little  higher,  and  looked  down  at  their  olive  round¬ 
ness  with  a  dispassionate  and  curious  air.  Romola  laughed, 
and  stooped  to  give  him  a  caressing  shake  and  a  kiss,  and  this 
action  helped  the  reassurance  that  Tessa  had  already  gathered 
from  Monna  Lisa’s  address  to  Romola.  For  when  Naldo  had 
been  told  about  the  adventure  at  the  Carnival,  and  Tessa  had 
asked  him  who  the  heavenly  lady  that  had  come  just  when 
she  was  wanted,  and  had  vanished  so  soon,  was  likely  to  be  — 
whether  she  could  be  the  Holy  Madonna  herself  ?  —  he  had 
answered,  “Not  exactly,  my  Tessa;  only  one  of  the  saints,” 
and  had  not  chosen  to  say  more.  So  that  in  the  dream-like 
combination  of  small  experience  which  made  up  Tessa’s 
thought,  Romola  had  remained  confusedly  associated  with  the 


S6 


EOMOLA. 


pictures  in  the  churches,  and  when  she  reappeared,  the  grate, 
ful  remembrance  of  her  protection  was  slightly  tinctured  with 
religious  awe  —  not  deeply,  for  Tessa’s  dread  was  chiefly  of 
ugly  and  evil  beings.  It  seemed  unlikely  that  good  beings 
would  be  angry  and  punish  her,  as  it  was  the  nature  of  Nofri 
and  the  devil  to  do.  And  now  that  Monna  Lisa  had  spoken 
freely  about  Lillo’s  legs  and  Eomola  had  laughed,  Tessa  was 
more  at  her  ease. 

“  Ninna ’s  in  the  cradle,”  she  said.  “  She ’s  pretty  too.” 

Eomola  went  to  look  at  the  sleeping  Ninna,  and  Monna 
Lisa,  one  of  the  exceptionally  meek  deaf,  who  never  expect  to 
be  spoken  to,  returned  to  her  salad. 

“  Ah  !  she  is  waking  :  she  has  opened  her  blue  eyes,”  said 
Eomola.  “  You  must  take  her  up,  and  I  will  sit  down  in  this 
chair  —  may  I  ?  —  and  nurse  Lillo.  Come,  Lillo  !  ” 

She  sat  down  in  Tito’s  chair,  and  put  out  her  arms  towards 
the  lad,  whose  eyes  had  followed  her.  He  hesitated  :  and, 
pointing  his  small  fingers  at  her  with  a  half-puzzled,  half-angry 
feeling,  said,  “  That ’s  Babbo’s  chair,”  not  seeing  his  way  out 
of  the  difficulty  if  Babbo  came  and  found  Eomola  in  his 
place. 

“  But  Babbo  is  not  here,  and  I  shall  go  soon.  Come,  let  me 
nurse  you  as  he  does,”  said  Eomola,  wondering  to  herself  for 
the  first  time  what  sort  of  Babbo  he  was  whose  wife  was 
dressed  in  contadina  fashion,  but  had  a  certain  daintiness 
about  her  person  that  indicated  idleness  and  plenty.  Lillo 
consented  to  be  lifted  up,  and,  finding  the  lap  exceedingly 
comfortable,  began  to  explore  her  dress  and  hands,  to  see  if 
there  were  any  ornaments  beside  the  rosary. 

Tessa,  who  had  hitherto  been  occupied  in  coaxing  Ninna 
out  of  her  waking  peevishness,  now  sat  down  in  her  low  chair, 
near  Eomola’s  knee,  arranging  Ninna’s  tiny  person  to  advan¬ 
tage,  jealous  that  the  strange  lady  too  seemed  to  notice  the 
boy  most,  as  Naldo  did. 

“  Lillo  was  going  to  be  angry  with  me,  because  I  sat  in 
Babbo’s  chair,”  said  Eomola,  as  she  bent  forward  to  kiss 
Ninna’s  little  foot.  “  Will  he  come  soon  and  want  it  ?” 

“  Ah,  no !  ”  said  Tessa,  “  you  can  sit  in  it  a  long  while.  I 


THE  OTHER  WIFE. 


87 


shall  be  sorry  when  you  go.  When  you  first  came  to  take 
care  of  me  at  the  Carnival,  I  thought  it  was  wonderful ;  you 
came  and  went  away  again  so  fast.  And  Naldo  said,  perhaps 
you  were  a  saint,  and  that  made  me  tremble  a  little,  though 
the  saints  are  very  good,  I  know ;  and  you  were  good  to  me, 
and  now  you  have  taken  care  of  Lillo.  Perhaps  you  will  al¬ 
ways  come  and  take  care  of  me.  That  was  how  Naldo  did  a 
long  while  ago ;  he  came  and  took  care  of  me  when  I  was 
frightened,  one  San  Giovanni.  I  could  n’t  think  where  he 
came  from  —  he  was  so  beautiful  and  good.  And  so  are  you,” 
ended  Tessa,  looking  up  at  Pomola  with  devout  admiration. 

“  Naldo  is  your  husband.  His  eyes  are  like  Lillo’s,”  said 
Romola,  looking  at  the  boy’s  darkly  pencilled  eyebrows,  un¬ 
usual  at  his  age.  She  did  not  speak  interrogatively,  but  with 
a  quiet  certainty  of  inference  which  was  necessarily  mys¬ 
terious  to  Tessa. 

“  Ah  !  you  know  him  !  ”  she  said,  pausing  a  little  in  wonder. 
“  Perhaps  you  know  Nofri  and  Peretola,  and  our  house  on  the 
hill,  and  everything.  Yes,  like  Lillo’s;  but  not  his  hair.  His 
hair  is  dark  and  long  —  ”  she  went  on,  getting  rather  excited. 

Ah  !  if  you  know  it,  ecco  !  ” 

She  had  put  her  hand  to  a  thin  red  silk  cord  that  hung 
round  her  neck,  and  drew  from  her  bosom  the  tiny  old  parch¬ 
ment  breve,  the  horn  of  red  coral,  and  a  long  dark  curl 
carefully  tied  at  one  end  and  suspended  with  those  mystic 
treasures.  She  held  them  towards  Romola,  away  from  Mima’s 
snatching  hand. 

It  is  a  fresh  one.  I  cut  it  lately.  See  how  bright  it  is  !  ” 
she  said,  laying  it  against  the  white  background  of  Romola’s 
fingers.  “They  get  dim,  and  then  he  lets  me  cut  another 
when  his  hair  is  grown  ;  and  I  put  it  with  the  breve,  because 
sometimes  he  is  away  a  long  while,  and  then  I  think  it  helps 
to  take  care  of  me.” 

A  slight  shiver  passed  through  Romola  as  the  curl  was  laid 
across  her  fingers.  At  1  essa’s  first  mention  of  her  husband  as 
having  come  mysteriously  she  knew  not  whence,  a  possibility 
had  risen  before  Romola  that  made  her  heart  beat  faster ;  for 
t(?  one  who  is  anxiously  in  search  of  a  certain  object  the  faint- 


88 


EOMOLA. 


est  suggestions  have  a  peculiar  significance.  And  when  the 
curl  was  held  towards  her,  it  seemed  for  an  instant  like  a 
mocking  phantasm  of  the  lock  she  herself  had  cut  to  wind 
with  one  of  her  own  five  years  ago.  But  she  preserved  her 
outward  calmness,  bent  not  only  on  knowing  the  truth,  but 
also  on  coming  to  that  knowledge  in  a  way  that  would  not 
pain  this  poor,  trusting,  ignorant  thing,  with  the  child’s  mind 
in  the  woman’s  body.  Foolish  and  helpless  :  ”  yes  5  so  far 
she  corresponded  to  Baldassarre’s  account. 

“  It  is  a  beautiful  curl,”  she  said,  resisting  the  impulse  to 
withdraw  her  hand.  ‘‘Lillo’s  curls  will  be  like  it,  perhaps, 
for  his  cheek,  too,  is  dark.  And  you  never  know  where  your 
husband  goes  to  when  he  leaves  you  ?  ” 

“No,”  said  Tessa,  putting  back  her  treasures  out  of  the 
children’s  way.  “  But  I  know  Messer  San  Michele  takes  care 
of  him,  for  he  gave  him  a  beautiful  coat,  all  made  of  little 
chains  ;  and  if  he  puts  that  on,  nobody  can  kill  him.  And 
perhaps,  if  —  ”  Tessa  hesitated  a  little,  under  a  recurrence  of 
that  original  dreamy  wonder  about  Eomola  which  had  been 
expelled  by  chatting  contact  —  “  if  you  were  a  saint,  you  would 
take  care  of  him,  too,  because  you  have  taken  care  of  me  and 
Lillo.” 

An  agitated  flush  came  over  Bomola’s  face  in  the  first  mo¬ 
ment  of  certainty,  but  she  had  bent  her  cheek  against  Lillo’s 
head.  The  feeling  that  leaped  out  in  that  flush  was  some¬ 
thing  like  exultation  at  the  thought  that  the  wife’s  burden 
might  be  about  to  slip  from  her  overladen  shoulders ;  that  this 
little  ignorant  creature  might  prove  to  be  Tito’s  lawful  wife. 
A  strange  exultation  for  a  proud  and  high-born  woman  to  have 
been  brought  to  !  But  it  seemed  to  Eomola  as  if  that  were 
the  only  issue  that  w'ould  make  duty  anything  else  for  her 
than  an  insoluble  problem.  Yet  she  was  not  deaf  to  Tessa’s 
last  appealing  words ;  she  raised  her  head,  and  said,  in  her 
clearest  tones  — 

“  I  will  always  take  care  of  you  if  I  see  you  need  me.  But 
that  beautiful  coat  ?  your  husband  did  not  wear  it  when  you 
were  first  married  ?  Perhaps  he  used  not  to  be  so  long  away 
from  you  then  ?  ” 


THE  OTHER  WIFE. 


80 


Ah,  yes !  he  was.  Much  —  much  longer.  So  long,  I 
thought  he  would  never  come  back.  I  used  to  cry.  Oh  me ! 
r  was  beaten  then ;  a  long,  long  while  ago  at  Peretola,  where 
we  had  the  goats  and  mules.” 

And  how  long  had  you  been  married  before  your  husband 
had  that  chain  coat  ?  ”  said  Eomola,  her  heart  beating  faster 
and  faster. 

Tessa  looked  meditative,  and  began  to  count  on  her  fingers, 
and  Eomola  watched  the  fingers  as  if  they  would  tell  the 
secret  of  her  destiny. 

‘‘The  chestnuts  were  ripe  when  we  were  married,”  said 
Tessa,  marking  off  her  thumb  and  fingers  again  as  she  spoke ; 
“and  then  again  they  were  ripe  at  Peretola  before  he  came 
back,  and  then  again,  after  that,  on  the  hill.  And  soon  the 
soldiers  came,  and  we  heard  the  trumpets,  and  then  Naldo 
had  the  coat.” 

“  You  had  been  married  more  than  two  years.  In  which 
church  were  you  married  ?  ”  said  Eomola,  too  entirely  absorbed 
by  one  thought  to  put  any  question  that  was  less  direct.  Per¬ 
haps  before  the  next  morning  she  might  go  to  her  godfather 
and  say  that  she  was  not  Tito  Melema’s  lawful  wife  —  that 
the  vows  which  had  bound  her  to  strive  after  an  impossible 
union  had  been  made  void  beforehand. 

Tessa  gave  a  slight  start  at  Eomola’s  new  tone  of  inquiry, 
and  looked  up  at  her  with  a  hesitating  expression.  Hitherto 
she  had  prattled  on  without  consciousness  that  she  was  mak¬ 
ing  revelations,  any  more  than  when  she  said  old  things  over 
and  over  again  to  Monna  Lisa. 

“  Kaldo  said  I  was  never  to  tell  about  that,”  she  said,  doubt¬ 
fully.  “  Ho  you  think  he  would  not  be  angry  if  I  told  you  ?  ” 

“  It  is  right  that  you  should  tell  me.  Tell  me  everything,” 
said  Eomola,  looking  at  her  with  mild  authority. 

If  the  impression  from  Naldo’s  command  had  been  much 
more  recent  than  it  was,  the  constraining  effect  of  Eomola’s 
mysterious  authority  would  have  overcome  it.  But  the  sense 
that  she  was  telling  what  she  had  never  told  before  made  her 
begin  with  a  lowered  voice. 

“  It  was  not  in  a  church  —  it  was  at  the  Nativith,  when  there 


90 


ROMOLA 


was  a  fair,  and  all  the  people  went  overnight  to  see  the  Ma¬ 
donna  in  the  Nunziata,  and  my  mother  was  ill  and  could  n’t 
go,  and  I  took  the  bunch  of  cocoons  for  her ;  and  then  he  came 
to  me  in  the  church  and  I  heard  him  say,  ‘  Tessa  !  ’  I  knew 
him  because  he  had  taken  care  of  me  at  the  San  Giovanni, 
and  then  we  went  into  the  piazza  where  the  fair  was,  and  I 
had  some  herlingozzi,  for  I  was  hungry  and  he  was  very  good 
to  me ;  and  at  the  end  of  the  piazza  there  was  a  holy  father, 
and  an  altar  like  what  they  have  at  the  processions  outside 
the  churches.  So  he  married  us,  and  then  Naldo  took  me  back 
into  the  church  and  left  me ;  and  I  went  home,  and  my  mother 
died,  and  Nofri  began  to  beat  me  more,  and  Naldo  never  came 
back.  And  I  used  to  cry,  and  once  at  the  Carnival  I  saw  him 
and  followed  him,  and  he  was  angry,  and  said  he  would  come 
some  time,  I  must  wait.  So  I  went  and  waited  ;  but,  oh  !  it 
was  a  long  while  before  he  came  ;  but  he  would  have  come  if 
he  could,  for  he  was  good ;  and  then  he  took  me  away,  because 
I  cried  and  said  I  could  not  bear  to  stay  with  Nofri.  And, 
oh  !  I  was  so  glad,  and  since  then  I  have  been  always  happy, 
for  I  don’t  mind  about  the  goats  and  mules,  because  I  have 
Lillo  and  Ninna  now  ;  and  Naldo  is  never  angry,  only  I  think 
he  does  n’t  love  Ninna  so  well  as  Lillo,  and  she  is  pretty.” 

Quite  forgetting  that  she  had  thought  her  speech  rather  mo¬ 
mentous  at  the  beginning,  Tessa  fell  to  devouring  Ninna  with 
kisses,  while  Romola  sat  in  silence  with  absent  eyes.  It  was 
inevitable  that  in  this  moment  she  should  think  of  the  three 
beings  before  her  chiefly  in  their  relation  to  her  own  lot,  and 
she  was  feeling  the  chill  of  disappointment  that  her  ditficulties 
were  not  to  be  solved  by  external  law.  She  had  relaxed  her 
hold  of  Lillo,  and  was  leaning  her  cheek  against  her  hand,  see¬ 
ing  nothing  of  the  scene  around  her.  Lillo  was  quick  in  per¬ 
ceiving  a  change  that  was  not  agreeable  to  him ;  he  had  not 
yet  made  any  return  to  her  caresses,  but  he  objected  to  their 
withdrawal,  and  putting  up  both  his  brown  arms  to  pull  her 
head  towards  him,  he  said,  “  Play  with  me  again  !  ” 

Romola,  roused  from  her  self-absorption,  clasped  the  lad 
anew,  and  looked  from  him  to  Tessa,  who  had  now  paused 
from  her  shower  of  kisses,  and  seemed  to  have  returned  to  the 


THE  OTHER  WIFE. 


more  placid  delight  of  contemplating  the  heavenly  lady’s  face. 
That  face  was  undergoing  a  subtle  change,  like  the  gradual 
oncoming  of  a  warmer,  softer  light.  Presently  Pomola  took 
her  scissors  from  her  scarsella,  and  cut  off  one  of  her  long 
wavy  locks,  while  the  three  pair  of  wide  eyes  followed  her 
movements  with  kitten-like  observation. 

“I  must  go  away  from  you  now,”  she  said,  “but  I  will  leave 
this  lock  of  hair  that  it  may  remind  you  of  me,  because  if  you 
are  ever  in  trouble  you  can  think  that  perhaps  God  will  send 
me  to  take  care  of  you  again.  I  cannot  tell  you  where  to  find 
me,  but  if  I  ever  know  that  you  want  me,  I  will  come  to  you. 
Addio !  ” 

She  had  set  down  Lillo  hurriedly,  and  held  out  her  hand  to 
Tessa,  who  kissed  it  with  a  mixture  of  awe  and  sorrow  at  this 
parting.  Romola’s  mind  was  oppressed  with  thoughts  ;  she 
needed  to  be  alone  as  soon  as  possible,  but  with  her  habitual 
care  for  the  least  fortunate,  she  turned  aside  to  put  her  hand 
in  a  friendly  way  on  Monna  Lisa’s  shoulder  and  make  her  a 
farewell  sign.  Before  the  old  woman  had  finished  her  deep 
reverence,  Roinola  had  disappeared. 

Monna  Lisa  and  Tessa  moved  towards  each  other  by  simul¬ 
taneous  impulses,  while  the  two  children  stood  clinging  to 
their  mother’s  skirts  as  if  they,  too,  felt  the  atmosphere  of 
awe. 

“  Do  you  think  she  was  a  saint  ?  ”  said  Tessa,  in  Lisa’s  ear, 
showing  her  the  lock. 

Lisa  rejected  that  notion  very  decidedly  by  a  backward 
movement  of  her  fingers,  and  then  stroking  the  rippled  gold, 
said  — 

“  She ’s  a  great  and  noble  lady.  I  saw  such  in  my  youth.” 

Homola  went  home  and  sat  alone  through  the  sultry  hours 
of  that  day  with  the  heavy  certainty  that  her  lot  was  un¬ 
changed.  She  was  thrown  back  again  on  the  conflict  between 
the  demands  of  an  outward  law,  which  she  recognized  as  a 
widely  ramifying  obligation,  and  the  demands  of  inner  moral 
facts  which  were  becoming  more  and  more  peremptory.  She 
had  drunk  in  deeply  the  spirit  of  that  teaching  by  which 
Savonarola  had  urged  her  to  return  to  her  place.  She  felt 


92 


ROMOLA. 


that  the  sanctity  attached  to  all  close  relations,  and,  therefore, 
pre-eminently  to  the  closest,  was  but  the  expression  in  outward 
law  of  that  result  towards  which  all  human  goodness  and 
nobleness  must  spontaneously  tend;  that  the  light  abandon¬ 
ment  of  ties,  whether  inherited  or  voluntary,  because  they  had 
ceased  to  be  pleasant,  was  the  uprooting  of  social  and  personal 
virtue.  What  else  had  Tito’s  crime  towards  Baldassarre  been 
but  that  abandonment  working  itself  out  to  the  most  hideous 
extreme  of  falsity  and  ingratitude  ? 

And  the  inspiring  consciousness  breathed  into  her  by  Savona¬ 
rola’s  influence  that  her  lot  was  vitally  united  with  the  general 
lot  had  exalted  even  the  minor  details  of  obligation  into  re¬ 
ligion.  She  was  marching  with  a  great  army ;  she  was  feeling 
the  stress  of  a  common  life.  If  victims  were  needed,  and  it 
was  uncertain  on  whom  the  lot  might  fall,  she  would  stand 
ready  to  answer  to  her  name.  She  had  stood  long ;  she  had 
striven  hard  to  fulfil  the  bond,  but  she  had  seen  all  the  condi¬ 
tions  which  made  the  fulfilment  possible  gradually  forsaking 
her.  The  one  effect  of  her  marriage-tie  seemed  to  be  the  sti¬ 
fling  predominance  over  her  of  a  nature  that  she  despised.  All 
her  efforts  at  union  had  only  made  its  impossibility  more  pal¬ 
pable,  and  the  relation  had  become  for  her  simply  a  degrading 
servitude.  The  law  was  sacred.  Yes,  but  rebellion  might  be 
sacred  too.  It  flashed  upon  her  mind  that  the  problem  before 
her  was  essentially  the  same  as  that  which  had  lain  before 
Savonarola  —  the  problem  where  the  sacredness  of  obedience 
ended,  and  where  the  sacredness  of  rebellion  began.  To  her, 
as  to  him,  there  had  come  one  of  those  moments  in  life  when 
the  soul  must  dare  to  act  on  its  own  warrant,  not  only  without 
external  law  to  appeal  to,  but  in  the  face  of  a  law  which  is  not 
unarmed  with  Divine  lightnings  — lightnings  that  may  yet  fall 
if  the  warrant  has  been  false. 

Before  the  sun  had  gone  down  she  had  adopted  a  resolve. 
She  would  ask  no  counsel  of  her  godfather  or  of  Savonarola 
until  she  had  made  one  determined  effort  to  speak  freely  with 
Tito  and  obtain  his  consent  that  she  should  live  apart  from 
him.  She  desired  not  to  leave  him  clandestinely  again,  or  to 
forsake  Florence.  She  would  tell  him  that  if  he  ever  felt  a 


THE  OTHER  WIFE. 


93 


real  need  of  her,  she  would  come  back  to  him.  Was  not  that 
the  utmost  faithfulness  to  her  bond  that  could  be  required  of 
her  ?  A  shuddering  anticipation  came  over  her  that  he  would 
clothe  a  refusal  in  a  sneering  suggestion  that  she  should  enter 
a  convent  as  the  only  mode  of  quitting  him  that  would  not  be 
scandalous.  He  knew  well  that  her  mind  revolted  from  that 
means  of  escape,  not  only  because*of  her  own  repugnance  to  a 
narrow  rule,  but  because  all  the  cherished  memories  of  her 
father  forbade  that  she  should  adopt  a  mode  of  life  which  was 
associated  with  his  deepest  griefs  and  his  bitterest  dislike. 

Tito  had  announced  his  intention  of  coming  home  this  even¬ 
ing.  She  would  wait  for  him,  and  say  what  she  had  to  say  at 
once,  for  it  was  difficult  to  get  his  ear  during  the  day.  If  he 
had  the  slightest  suspicion  that  personal  words  were  coming, 
he  slipped  away  with  an  appearance  of  unpremeditated  ease. 
When  she  sent  for  Maso  to  tell  him  that  she  would  wait  for 
his  master,  she  observed  that  the  old  man  looked  at  her  and 
lingered  with  a  mixture  of  hesitation  and  wondering  anxiety ; 
but  finding  that  she  asked  him  no  question,  he  slowly  turned 
away.  Why  should  she  ask  questions  ?  Perhaps  Maso  only 
knew  or  guessed  something  of  what  she  knew  already. 

It  was  late  before  Tito  came.  Romola  had  been  pacing  up 
and  down  the  long  room  which  had  once  been  the  library,  with 
the  windows  open,  and  a  loose  white  linen  robe  on  instead  of 
her  usual  black  garment.  She  was  glad  of  that  change  after 
the  long  hours  of  heat  and  motionless  meditation ;  but  the 
coolness  and  exercise  made  her  more  intensely  wakeful,  and 
as  she  went  with  the  lamp  in  her  hand  to  open  the  door  for 
Tito,  he  might  well  have  been  startled  by  the  vividness  of  her 
eyes  and  the  expression  of  painful  resolution,  which  was  in 
contrast  with  her  usual  self-restrained  quiescence  before  him. 
But  it  seemed  that  this  excitement  was  just  what  he  expected. 

“  Ah  !  it  is  you,  Bomola.  Maso  is  gone  to  bed,”  he  said, 
in  a  grave,  quiet  tone,  interposing  to  close  the  door  for  her. 
Then,  turning  round,  he  said,  looking  at  her  more  fully  than 
he  was  wont,  You  have  heard  it  all,  I  see.” 

Romola  quivered.  He  then  was  inclined  to  take  the  ini¬ 
tiative.  He  had  been  to  Tessa.  She  led  the  way  through 


94  ROMOLA. 

the  nearest  door,  set  down  her  lamp,  and  turned  towards  him 
again. 

You  must  not  think  despairingly  of  the  consequences,” 
said  Tito,  in  a  tone  of  soothing  encouragement,  at  which 
Tvomola  stood  wondering,  until  he  added,  ‘‘The  accused  have 
too  many  family  ties  with  all  parties  not  to  escape ;  and 
IMesser  Bernardo  del  Nero  has  other  things  in  his  favor 
besides  his  age.” 

Romola  started,  and  gave  a  cry  as  if  she  had  been  suddenly 
stricken  by  a  sharp  weapon. 

“  What !  you  did  not  know  it?  ”  said  Tito,  putting  his  hand 
under  her  arm  that  he  might  lead  her  to  a  seat ;  but  she  seemed 
to  be  unaware  of  his  touch. 

“Tell  me,”  she  said,  hastily  —  “tell  me  what  it  is.” 

“  A  man,  whose  name  you  may  forget  —  Lamberto  delT 
Antella  —  who  was  banished,  has  been  seized  within  the  terri¬ 
tory  :  a  letter  has  been  found  on  him  of  very  dangerous  import 
to  the  chief  Mediceans,  and  the  scoundrel,  who  was  once  a 
favorite  hound  of  Piero  de’  Medici,  is  ready  now  to  swear 
what  any  one  pleases  against  him  or  his  friends.  Some  have 
made  their  escape,  but  five  are  now  in  prison.” 

“  My  godfather  ?  ”  said  Eomola,  scarcely  above  a  whisper, 
as  Tito  made  a  slight  pause. 

“  Yes  :  I  grieve  to  say  it.  But  along  with  him  there  are 
three,  at  least,  whose  names  have  a  commanding  interest  even 
among  the  popular  party — Niccolb  Bidolfi,  Lorenzo  Tornabuoni, 
and  Giannozzo  Pucci.” 

The  tide  of  Bomola’s  feelings  had  been  violently  turned 
into  a  new  channel.  In  the  tumult  of  that  moment  there 
could  be  no  check  to  the  words  which  came  as  the  impulsive 
utterance  of  her  long-accumulating  horror.  When  Tito  had 
named  the  men  of  whom  she  felt  certain  he  was  the  con¬ 
federate,  she  said,  with  a  recoiling  gesture  and  low-toned 
bitterness  — 

“  And  you  —  you  are  safe  ?  ” 

“You  are  certainly  an  amiable  wife,  my  Eomola,”  said  Tito, 
with  the  coldest  irony.  “  Yes  ;  I  am  safe.” 

They  turned  away  from  each  other  in  silence. 


WHY  TITO  WAS  SAFE. 


95 


CHAPTER  LVII. 

WHY  TITO  WAS  SAFE. 

Tito  had  good  reasons  for  saying  that  he  was  safe.  In  the 
last  three  months,  during  which  he  had  foreseen  the  discovery 
of  the  Medicean  conspirators  as  a  probable  event,  he  had  had 
plenty  of  time  to  provide  himself  with  resources.  He  had 
been  strengthening  his  influence  at  Rome  and  at  Milan,  by 
being  the  medium  of  secret  information  and  indirect  measures 
against  the  Prate  and  the  popular  party ;  he  had  cultivated 
more  assiduously  than  ever  the  regard  of  this  party,  by  show¬ 
ing  subtle  evidence  that  his  political  convictions  were  entirely 
on  their  side  ;  and  all  the  while,  instead  of  withdrawing  his 
agency  from  the  Mediceans,  he  had  sought  to  be  more  actively 
employed  and  exclusively  trusted  by  them.  It  was  easy  to 
him  to  keep  up  this  triple  game.  The  principle  of  duplicity 
admitted  by  the  Mediceans  on  their  own  behalf  deprived  them 
of  any  standard  by  which  they  could  measure  the  trustworthi¬ 
ness  of  a  colleague  who  had  not,  like  themselves,  hereditary 
interests,  alliances,  and  prejudices,  which  were  intensely  Medi¬ 
cean.  In  their  minds,  to  deceive  the  opposite  party  was  fair 
stratagem ;  to  deceive  their  own  party  was  a  baseness  to  which 
they  felt  no.  temptation ;  and,  in  using  Tito’s  facile  ability, 
they  were  not  keenly  awake  to  the  fact  that  the  absence  of 
traditional  attachments  which  made  him  a  convenient  agent 
was  also  the  absence  of  what  among  themselves  was  the  chief 
guarantee  of  mutual  honor.  Again,  the  Roman  and  Milanese 
friends  of  the  aristocratic  party,  or  Arrabbiati,  who  were  the 
bitterest  enemies  of  Savonarola,  carried  on  a  system  of  under¬ 
hand  correspondence  and  espionage,  in  which  the  deepest  hy¬ 
pocrisy  was  the  best  service,  and  demanded  the  heaviest  pay ; 
so  that  to  suspect  an  agent  because  he  played  a  part  strongly 
would  have  been  an  absurd  want  of  logic.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  Piagnoni  of  the  popular  party,  who  had  the  directness 


ROMOLA. 


y6 

that  belongs  to  energetic  conviction,  were  the  more  inclined  to 
credit  Tito  with  sincerity  in  his  political  adhesion  to  them, 
because  he  affected  no  religious  sympathies. 

By  virtue  of  these  conditions,  the  last  three  months  had 
been  a  time  of  flattering  success  to  Tito.  The  result  he  most 
cared  for  was  the  securing  of  a  future  position  for  himself  at 
Rome  or  at  Milan  ;  for  he  had  a  growing  determination,  when 
the  favorable  moment  should  come,  to  quit  Florence  for  one  of 
those  great  capitals  where  life  was  easier,  and  the  rewards  of 
talent  and  learning  were  more  splendid.  At  present,  the  scale 
dipped  in  favor  of  Milan ;  and  if  within  the  year  he  could 
render  certain  services  to  Duke  Ludovico  Sforza,  he  had  the 
prospect  of  a  place  at  the  Milanese  court  which  outweighed 
the  advantages  of  Rome. 

The  revelation  of  the  Medicean  conspiracy,  then,  had  been 
a  subject  of  forethought  to  Tito  ;  but  he  had  not  been  able  to 
foresee  the  mode  in  which  it  would  be  brought  about.  The 
arrest  of  Lamberto  dell’  Antella  with  a  tell-tale  letter  on  his 
person,  and  a  bitter  rancor  against  the  Medici  in  his  heart, 
was  an  incalculable  event.  It  was  not  possible,  in  spite  of  the 
careful  pretexts  with  which  his  agency  had  been  guarded,  that 
Tito  should  escape  implication:  he  had  never  expected  this 
in  case  of  any  wide  discovery  concerning  the  Medicean  plots. 
But  his  quick  mind  had  soon  traced  out  the  course  that  would 
secure  his  own  safety  with  the  fewest  unpleasant  concomitants. 
It  is  agreeable  to  keep  a  whole  skin  ;  but  the  skin  still  remains 
an  organ  sensitive  to  the  atmosphere. 

His  reckoning  had  not  deceived  him.  That  night,  before  he 
returned  home,  he  had  secured  the  three  results  for  which  he 
most  cared :  he  was  to  be  freed  from  all  proceedings  against 
him  on  account  of  complicity  with  the  Mediceans  ;  he  was  to 
retain  his  secretaryship  for  another  year,  unless  he  previously 
resigned  it ;  and,  lastly,  the  price  by  which  he  had  obtained 
these  guarantees  was  to  be  kept  as  a  State  secret.  The  price 
would  have  been  thought  heavy  by  most  men ;  and  Tito  him¬ 
self  would  rather  not  have  paid  it. 

He  had  applied  himself  first  to  win  the  mind  of  Francesco 
Valori,  who  was  not  only  one  of  the  Ten  under  whom  he  im- 


WHY  TITO  WAS  SAFE. 


97 


mediately  held  his  secretaryship,  but  one  of  the  special  council 
appointed  to  investigate  the  evidence  of  the  plot.  Francesco 
Yalori,  as  we  have  seen,  was  the  head  of  the  Piagnoni,  a  man 
with  certain  fine  qualities  that  were  not  incompatible  with 
violent  partisanship,  with  an  arrogant  temper  that  alienated 
his  friends,  nor  with  bitter  personal  animosities  —  one  of  the 
bitterest  being  directed  against  Bernardo  del  Nero.  To  him, 
in  a  brief  private  interview,  after  obtaining  a  pledge  of  secrecy, 
Tito  avowed  his  own  agency  for  the  Mediceans  —  an  agency 
induced  by  motives  about  which  he  was  very  frank,  declaring 
at  the  same  time  that  he  had  always  believed  their  efforts 
futile,  and  that  he  sincerely  preferred  the  maintenance  of  the 
popular  government ;  affected  to  confide  to  Yalori,  as  a  secret, 
his  own  personal  dislike  for  Bernardo  del  Nero ;  and,  after 
this  preparation,  came  to  the  important  statement  that  there 
was  another  Medicean  plot,  of  which,  if  he  obtained  certain 
conditions  from  the  government,  he  could,  by  a  journey  to 
Siena  and  into  Eomagna,  where  Piero  de’  Medici  was  again 
trying  to  gather  forces,  obtain  documentary  evidence  to  lay 
before  the  council.  To  this  end  it  was  essential  that  his 
character  as  a  Medicean  agent  should  be  unshaken  for  all 
Mediceans,  and  hence  the  fact  that  he  had  been  a  source  of 
information  to  the  authorities  must  be  wrapped  in  profound 
secrecy.  Still,  some  odor  of  the  facts  might  escape  in  spite  of 
precaution,  and  before  Tito  could  incur  the  unpleasant  conse¬ 
quences  of  acting  against  his  friends,  he  must  be  assured  of 
immunity  from  any  prosecution  as  a  Medicean,  and  from 
deprivation  of  office  for  a  year  to  come. 

These  propositions  did  not  sound  in  the  ear  of  Francesco 
Yalori  precisely  as  they  sound  to  us.  Yalori’s  mind  was  not 
intensely  bent  on  the  estimation  of  Tito’s  conduct ;  and  it  loas 
intensely  bent  on  procuring  an  extreme  sentence  against  the 
five  prisoners.  There  were  sure  to  be  immense  efforts  to  save 
them  ;  and  it  was  to  be  wished  (on  public  grounds)  that  the 
evidence  against  them  should  be  of  the  strongest,  so  as  to 
alarm  all  well-affected  men  at  the  dangers  of  clemency.  The 
character  of  legal  proceedings  at  that  time  implied  that-  'evi¬ 
dence  was  one  of  those  desirable  things  which  could  only  he 


98 


ROMOLA. 


come  at  by  foul  means.  To  catch  a  few  people  and  torture 
them  into  confessing  everybody’s  guilt  was  one  step  towards 
justice  j  and  it  was  not  always  easy  to  see  the  next,  unless  a 
traitor  turned  up.  Lamberto  dell’  Antella  had  been  tortured 
in  aid  of  his  previous  willingness  to  tell  more  than  he  knew ; 
nevertheless,  additional  and  stronger  facts  were  desirable,  es¬ 
pecially  against  Bernardo  del  Nero,  who,  so  far  as  appeared 
hitherto,  had  simply  refrained  from  betraying  the  late  plot 
after  having  tried  in  vain  to  discourage  it ;  for  the  welfare  of 
Florence  demanded  that  the  guilt  of  Bernardo  del  Nero  should 
be  put  in  the  strongest  light.  So  Francesco  Valori  zealously 
believed;  and  perhaps  he  was  not  himself  aware  that  the 
strength  of  his  zeal  was  determined  by  his  hatred.  He  de¬ 
cided  that  Tito’s  proposition  ought  to  be  accepted,  laid  it 
before  his  colleagues  without  disclosing  Tito’s  name,  and  won 
them  over  to  his  opinion.  Late  in  the  day,  Tito  was  admitted 
to  an  audience  of  the  Special  Council,  and  produced  a  deep 
sensation  among  them  by  revealing  another  plot  for  insuring 
the  mastery  of  Florence  to  Piero  de’  Medici,  which  was  to 
have  been  carried  into  execution  in  the  middle  of  this  very 
month  of  August.  Documentary  evidence  on  this  subject 
would  do  more  than  anything  else  to  make  the  right  course 
clear.  He  received  a  commission  to  start  for  Siena  by  break 
of  day ;  and,  besides  this,  he  carried  away  with  him  from  the 
council  chamber  a  written  guarantee  of  his  immunity  and  of 
his  retention  of  office. 

Among  the  twenty  Florentines  who  bent  their  grave  eyes 
on  Tito,  as  he  stood  gracefully  before  them,  speaking  of  start¬ 
ling  things  with  easy  periphrasis,  and  with  that  apparently 
unaffected  admission  of  being  actuated  by  motives  short  of  the 
highest,  which  is  often  the  intensest  affectation,  there  were 
several  whose  minds  were  not  too  entirely  preoccupied  to  pass 
a  new  judgment  on  him  in  these  new  circumstances;  they 
silently  concluded  that  this  ingenious  and  serviceable  Greek 
was  in  future  rather  to  be  used  for  public  needs  than  for  pri¬ 
vate  intimacy.  Unprincipled  men  were  useful,  enabling  those 
who  had  more  scruples  to  keep  their  hands  tolerably  clean 
in  a  world  where  there  was  much  dirty  work  to  be  done. 


WHY  TITO  WAS  SAFE. 


99 


Indeed,  it  was  not  clear  to  respectable  Florentine  brains,  unless 
they  held  the  Frate’s  extravagant  belief  in  a  possible  purity 
and  loftiness  to  be  striven  for  on  this  earth,  how  life  was  to 
be  carried  on  in  any  department  without  human  instruments 
whom  it  would  not  be  unbecoming  to  kick  or  to  spit  upon  in 
the  act  of  handing  them  their  wages.  Some  of  these  very 
men  who  passed  a  tacit  judgment  on  Tito  were  shortly  to  be 
engaged  in  a  memorable  transaction  that  could  by  no  means 
have  been  carried  through  without  the  use  of  an  unscrupulous¬ 
ness  as  decided  as  his ;  but,  as  their  own  bright  poet  Pulci 
had  said  for  them,  it  is  one  thing  to  love  the  fruits  of  treach¬ 
ery,  and  another  thing  to  love  traitors  — 

“  II  tradimento  a  molti  place  assai, 

Ma  il  traditore  a  gnun  non  piacque  mah” 

The  same  society  has  had  a  gibbet  for  the  murderer  and  a 
gibbet  for  the  martyr,  an  execrating  hiss  for  a  dastardly  act, 
and  as  loud  a  hiss  for  many  a  word  of  generous  truthfulness 
or  just  insight :  a  mixed  condition  of  things  which  is  the  sign, 
not  of  hopeless  confusion,  but  of  struggling  order. 

For  Tito  himself,  he  was  not  unaware  that  he  had  sunk  a 
little  in  the  estimate  of  the  men  who  had  accepted  his  services. 
He  had  that  degree  of  self-contemplation  which  necessarily 
accompanies  the  habit  of  acting  on  well-considered  reasons,  of 
whatever  quality ;  and  if  he  could  have  chosen,  he  would  have 
declined  to  see  himself  disapproved  by  men  of  the  world.  He 
had  never  meant  to  be  disapproved  ;  he  had  meant  always  to 
conduct  himself  so  ably  that  if  he  acted  in  opposition  to  the 
standard  of  other  men  they  should  not  be  aware  of  it ;  and  the 
barrier  between  himself  and  Fomola  had  been  raised  by  the 
impossibility  of  such  concealment  with  her.  He  shrank  from 
condemnatory  judgments  as  from  a  climate  to  which  he  could 
not  adapt  himself.  But  things  were  not  so  plastic  in  the  hands 
of  cleverness  as  could  be  wished,  and  events  had  turned  out 
inconveniently.  He  had  really  no  rancor  against  Messer  Ber¬ 
nardo  del  Nero  ;  he  had  a  personal  liking  for  Lorenzo  Torna- 
buoni  and  Giannozzo  Pucci.  He  had  served  them  very  ably, 
and  in  such  a  way  that  if  their  party  had  been  winners  he 


100 


ROMOLA. 


would  have  merited  high  reward ;  but  was  he  to  relinquish  all 
the  agreeable  fruits  of  life  because  their  party  had  failed  ? 

‘His  proffer  of  a  little  additional  proof  against  them  would 
probably  have  no  influence  on  their  fate  ;  in  fact,  he  felt  con¬ 
vinced  they  would  escape  any  extreme  consequences  ;  but  if 
he  had  not  given  it,  his  own  fortunes,  which  made  a  promising 
fabric,  would  have  been  utterly  ruined.  And  what  motive 
could  any  man  really  have,  except  his  own  interest  ?  Floren¬ 
tines  whose  passions  were  engaged  in  their  petty  and  precari¬ 
ous  political  schemes  might  have  no  self-interest  separable  from 
family  pride  and  tenacity  in  old  hatreds  and  attachments  ;  a 
modern  simpleton  who  swallowed  whole  one  of  the  old  systems 
of  philosophy,  and  took  the  indigestion  it  occasioned  for  the 
signs  of  a  divine  afflux  or  the  voice  of  an  inward  monitor, 
might  see  his  interest  in  a  form  of  self-conceit  which  he  called 
self-rewarding  virtue  ;  fanatics  who  believed  in  the  coming 
Scourge  and  Renovation  might  see  their  own  interest  in  a 
future  palm-branch  and  white  robe  :  but  no  man  of  clear  in¬ 
tellect  allowed  his  course  to  be  determined  by  such  puerile 
impulses  or  questionable  inward  fumes.  Did  not  Pontanus, 
poet  and  philosopher  of  unrivalled  Latinity,  make  the  finest 
possible  oration  at  Naples  to  welcome  the  French  king,  who 
had  come  to  dethrone  the  learned  orator’s  royal  friend  and 
patron  ?  and  still  Pontanus  held  up  his  head  and  prospered. 
Men  did  not  really  care  about  these  things,  except  when  their 
personal  spleen  was  touched.  It  was  weakness  only  that  was 
despised ;  power  of  any  sort  carried  its  immunity ;  and  no 
man,  unless  by  very  rare  good  fortune,  could  mount  high  in 
the  world  without  incurring  a  few  unpleasant  necessities 
which  laid  him  open  to  enmity,  and  perhaps  to  a  little  hissing, 
when  enmity  wanted  a  pretext. 

It  was  a  faint  prognostic  of  that  hissing,  gathered  by  Tito 
from  certain  indications  when  he  was  before  the  council,  which 
gave  his  present  conduct  the  character  of  an  epoch  to  him,  and 
made  him  dwell  on  it  with  argumentative  vindication.  It  was 
not  that  he  was  taking  a  deeper  step  in  wrong-doing,  for  it  was 
not  possible  that  he  should  feel  any  tie  to  the  Mediceans  to  be 
stronger  than  the  tie  to  his  father ;  but  his  conduct  to  his 


A  FINAL  UNDERSTANDING. 


IC'l 

father  had  been  hidden  by  successful  lying:  his  present  act 
did  not  admit  of  total  concealment  —  in  its  very  nature  it  was 
a  revelation.  And  Tito  winced  under  his  new  liability  to 
disesteem. 

Well !  a  little  patience,  and  in  another  year,  or  perhaps  in 
half  a  year,  he  might  turn  his  back  on  these  hard,  eager  Flor¬ 
entines,  with  their  futile  quarrels  and  sinking  fortunes.  His 
brilliant  success  at  Florence  had  had  some  ugly  flaws  in  it :  he 
had  fallen  in  love  with  the  wrong  woman,  and  Baldassarre 
had  come  back  under  incalculable  circumstances.  But  as  Tito 
galloped  with  a  loose  rein  towards  Siena,  he  saw  a  future  be¬ 
fore  him  in  which  he  would  no  longer  be  haunted  by  those 
mistakes.  He  had  much  ijioney  safe  out  of  Florence  already  ; 
he  was  in  the  fresh  ripeness  of  eight-and-twenty  ;  he  was  con¬ 
scious  of  well-tried  skill.  Could  he  not  strip  himself  of  the 
past,  as  of  rehearsal  clothing,  and  throw  away  the  old  bundle, 
to  robe  himself  for  the  real  scene  ? 

It  did  not  enter  into  Tito’s  meditations  on  the  future,  that, 
on  issuing  from  the  council  chamber  and  descending  the  stairs, 
he  had  brushed  against  a  man  whose  face  he  had  not  stayed  to 
recognize  in  the  lamp-light.  The  man  was  Ser  Ceccone  —  also 
willing  to  serve  the  State  by  giving  information  against  un¬ 
successful  employers. 


CHAPTER  LVIII. 

A  FINAL  UNDERSTANDING. 

Tito  soon  returned  from  Siena,  but  almost  immediately  set 
out  on  another  journey,  from  which  he  did  not  return  till  the 
17th  of  August.  Nearly  a  fortnight  had  passed  since  the 
arrest  of  the  accused,  and  still  they  were  in  prison,  still  their 
fate  was  uncertain.  Rornola  had  felt  during  this  interval 
as  if  all  cares  were  suspended  for  her,  other  than  watching  the 
fluctuating  probabilities  concerning  that  fate.  Sometimes  they 
seemed  strongly  in  favor  of  the  prisoners ;  for  the  chances 


102 


EOMOLA. 


of  effective  interest  on  their  behalf  were  heightened  by  delay, 
and  an  indefinite  prospect  of  delay  was  opened  by  the  reluc¬ 
tance  of  all  persons  in  authority  to  incur  the  odium  attendant 
on  any  decision.  On  the  one  side  there  was  a  loud  cry  that 
the  Republic  was  in  danger,  and  that  lenity  to  the  prisoners 
would  be  the  signal  of  attack  for  all  its  enemies;  on  the 
other,  there  was  a  certainty  that  a  sentence  of  death  and 
confiscation  of  property  passed  on  five  citizens  of  distin¬ 
guished  name,  would  entail  the  rancorous  hatred  of  their 
relatives  on  all  who  were  conspicuously  instrumental  to  such  a 
sentence. 

The  final  judgment  properly  lay  with  the  Eight,  who  pre¬ 
sided  over  the  administration  of  .criminal  justice;  and  the 
sentence  depended  on  a  majority  of  six  votes.  But  the  Eight 
shrank  from  their  onerous  responsibility,  and  asked  in  this 
exceptional  case  to  have  it  shared  by  the  Signoria  (or  the 
Gonfaloniere  and  the  eight  Priors).  The  Signoria  in  its  turn 
shrugged  its  shoulders,  and  proposed  the  appeal  to  the  Great 
Council.  For,  according  to  a  law  passed  by  the  earnest  per¬ 
suasion  of  Savonarola  nearly  three  years  before,  whenever  a 
citizen  was  condemned  to  death  by  the  fatal  six  votes  (called 
the  sei  fave  or  six  leans,  beans  being  in  more  senses  than  one 
the  political  pulse  of  Florence),  he  had  the  right  of  appealing 
from  that  sentence  to  the  Great  Couneil. 

But  in  this  stage  of  the  business,  the  friends  of  the  accused 
resisted  the  appeal,  determined  chiefly  by  the  wish  to  gain 
delay ;  and,  in  fact,  strict  legality  required  that  sentence 
should  have  been  passed  prior  to  the  appeal.  Their  resistance 
prevailed,  and  a  middle  course  was  taken ;  the  sentence  was 
referred  to  a  large  assembly  convened  on  the  17th,  consist¬ 
ing  of  all  the  higher  magistracies,  the  smaller  council  or 
Senate  of  Eighty,  and  a  select  number  of  citizens. 

On  this  day  Romola,  with  anxiety  heightened  by  the  pos¬ 
sibility  that  before  its  close  her  godfather’s  fate  might  be 
decided,  had  obtained  leave  to  see  him  for  the  second  time, 
but  only  in  the  presence  of  witnesses.  She  had  returned  to 
the  Via  de’  Bardi  in  company  with  her  cousin  Brigida,  still 
ignorant  whether  the  council  had  come  to  any  decisive  issue ; 


A  FINAL  UNDERSTANDINa. 


103 


and  Monna  Brigida  had  gone  out  again  to  await  the  momen¬ 
tous  news  at  the  house  of  a  friend  belonging  to  one  of  the 
magistracies,  that  she  might  bring  back  authentic  tidings  as 
soon  as  they  were  to  be  had. 

Eomola  had  sunk  on  the  first  seat  in  the  bright  saloon,  too 
much  agitated,  too  sick  at  heart,  to  care  about  her  place,  or  be 
conscious  of  discordance  in  the  objects  that  surrounded  her. 
She  sat  with  her  back  to  the  door,  resting  her  head  on  her 
hands.  It  seemed  a  long  while  since  Monna  Brigida  had  gone, 
and  Eomola  was  expecting  her  return.  But  when  the  door 
opened  she  knew  it  was  not  Monna  Brigida  who  entered. 

Since  she  had  parted  from  Tito  on  that  memorable  night, 
she  had  had  no  external  proof  to  warrant  her  belief  that  he 
had  won  his  safety  by  treachery ;  on  the  contrary,  she  had 
had  evidence  that  he  was  still  trusted  by  the  Mediceans,  and 
was  believed  by  them  to  be  accomplishing  certain  errands  of 
theirs  in  Eomagna,  under  cover  of  fulfilling  a  commission 
of  the  government.  For  the  obscurity  in  which  the  evidence 
concerning  the  conspirators  was  shrouded  allowed  it  to  be 
understood  that  Tito  had  escaped  any  implication. 

But  Eomola’s  suspicion  was  not  to  be  dissipated :  her  horror 
of  his  conduct  towards  Baldassarre  projected  itself  over  every 
conception  of  his  acts ;  it  was  as  if  she  had  seen  him  commit¬ 
ting  a  murder,  and  had  had  a  diseased  impression  ever  after 
that  his  hands  were  covered  with  fresh  blood. 

As  she  heard  his  step  on  the  stone  floor,  a. chill  shudder 
passed  through  her ;  she  could  not  turn  round,  she  could  not 
rise  to  give  any  greeting.  He  did  not  speak,  but  after  an 
instant’s  pause  took  a  seat  on  the  other  side  of  the  table  just 
opposite  to  her.  Then  she  raised  her  eyes  and  looked  at  him ; 
but  she  was  mute.  He  did  not  show  any  irritation,  but  said, 
coolly  — 

“  This  meeting  corresponds  with  our  parting,  Eomola.  But 
I  understand  that  it  is  a  moment  of  terrible  suspense.  I  am 
come,  however,  if  you  will  listen  to  me,  to  bring  you  the 
relief  of  hope.” 

She  started,  and  altered  her  position,  but  looked  at  him 
dubiously. 


104 


ROMOLA, 


“  It  will  not  be  unwelcome  to  you  to  hear  —  even  though  it  is 
I  who  tell  it  —  that  the  council  is  prorogued  till  the  21st.  The 
Eight  have  been  frightened  at  last  into  passing  a  sentence  of 
condemnation,  but  the  demand  has  now  been  made  on  behalf 
of  the  condemned  for  the  Appeal  to  the  Great  Council.” 

Roinola’s  face  lost  its  dubious  expression  j  she  asked 
eagerly  — 

“  And  when  is  it  to  be  made  ?  ” 

“  It  has  not  yet  been  granted  ;  but  it  may  be  granted.  The 
Special  Council  is  to  meet  again  on  the  21st  to  deliberate 
whether  the  Appeal  shall  be  allowed  or  not.  In  the  mean 
time  there  is  an  interval  of  three  days,  in  which  chances  may 
occur  in  favor  of  the  prisoners  —  in  which  interest  may  be 
used  on  their  behalf.” 

Eomola  started  from  her  seat.  The  color  had  risen  to  her 
face  like  a  visible  thought,  and  her  hands  trembled.  In  that 
moment  her  feeling  towards  Tito  was  forgotten. 

‘‘  Possibly,”  said  Tito,  also  rising,  “  your  own  intention  may 
have  anticipated  what  I  was  going  to  say.  You  are  thinking 
of  the  Prate.” 

“  I  am,”  said  Eomola,  looking  at  him  with  surprise.  “  Has 
he  done  anything  ?  Is  there  anything  to  tell  me  ?  ” 

“  Only  this.  It  was  Messer  Francesco  Valori’s  bitterness 
and  violence  which  chiefly  determined  the  course  of  things  in 
the  council  to-day.  Half  the  men  who  gave  in  their  opinion 
against  the  prisoners  were  frightened  into  it,  and  there  are 
numerous  friends  of  Fra  Girolamo  both  in  this  Special  Council 
and  out  of  it  who  are  strongly  opposed  to  the  sentence  of 
death — Piero  Guicciardini,  for  example,  who  is  one  member 
of  the  Signoria  that  made  the  stoutest  resistance ;  and  there 
is  Giovan  Battista  Eidolfl,  who,  Piagnone  as  he  is,  will  not 
lightly  forgive  the  death  of  his  brother  Niccolh.” 

But  how  can  the  Appeal  be  denied,”  said  Eomola,  indig¬ 
nantly,  “  when  it  is  the  law  —  when  it  was  one  of  the  chief 
glories  of  the  popular  government  to  have  passed  the  law  ?  ” 

“  They  call  this  an  exceptional  case.  Of  course  there  are 
ingenious  arguments,  but  there  is  much  more  of  loud  bluster 
about  the  danger  of  the  Eepublic.  But,  you  see,  no  oppositioc 


A  FINAL  UNDERSTANDING. 


105 


could  prevent  the  assembly  from  being  prorogued,  and  a  cer¬ 
tain  powerful  influence  rightly  applied  during  the  next  three 
days  might  determine  the  wavering  courage  of  those  who 
desire  that  the  Appeal  should  be  granted,  and  might  even 
give  a  check  to  the  headlong  enmity  of  Francesco  Valori.  It 
happens  to  have  come  to  my  knowledge  that  the  Frate  has  so 
far  interfered  as  to  send  a  message  to  him  in  favor  of  Lorenzo 
Tornabuoni.  I  know  you  can  sometimes  have  access  to  the 
Frate :  it  might  at  all  events  be  worth  while  to  use  your 
privilege  now.” 

‘‘  It  is  true,”  said  Eomola,  with  an  air  of  abstraction.  ‘‘  I 
cannot  believe  that  the  Frate  would  approve  denying  the 
Appeal.” 

I  heard  it  said  by  more  than  one  person  in  the  court  of  the 
Palazzo,  before  I  came  away,  that  it  would  be  to  the  ever¬ 
lasting  discredit  of  Fra  Girolamo  if  he  allowed  a  government 
which  is  almost  entirely  made  up  of  his  party,  to  deny  the 
Appeal,  without  entering  his  protest,  when  he  has  been  boast¬ 
ing  in  his  books  and  sermons  that  it  was  he  who  got  the  law 
passed.^  But  between  ourselves,  with  all  respect  for  your 
Frate’s  ability,  my  Eomola,  he  has  got  into  the  practice  of 
preaching  that  form  of  human  sacrifices  called  killing  tyrants 
and  wicked  malcontents,  which  some  of  his  followers  are  likely 
to  think  inconsistent  with  lenity  in  the  present  case.” 

‘‘I  know,  I  know,”  said  Eomola,  with  a  look  and  tone  of 
pain.  “  But  he  is  driven  into  those  excesses  of  speech.  It 
used  to  be  different.  I  will  ask  for  an  interview.  I  cannot 
rest  without  it.  I  trust  in  the  greatness  of  his  heart.” 

She  was  not  looking  at  Tito;  her  eyes  were  bent  with  a 

1  The  most  recent,  and  in  some  respects  the  best,  biographer  of  Savonarola, 
Signor  Villari,  endeavors  to  show  that  the  Law  of  Appeal  ultimately  enacted, 
being  wider  than  the  law  originally  contemplated  by  Savonarola,  was  a  source 
of  bitter  annoyance  to  him,  as  a  contrivance  of  the  aristocratic  party  for 
attaching  to  the  measures  of  the  popular  government  the  injurious  results  of 
license.  But  in  taking  this  view  the  estimable  biographer  lost  sight  of  the 
fact  that,  not  only  in  his  sermons,  but  in  a  deliberately  prepared  book  (the 
Compendium  Revelationum)  written  long  after  the  Appeal  had  become  law, 
Savonarola  enumerates  among  the  benefits  secured  to  Florence,  “  the  Appeal 
from  the  Six  Votes,  advocated  hj  me,  for  the  greater  security  of  the  citizens.” 


106 


ROMOLA. 


vague  gaze  towards  the  ground,  and  she  had  no  distinct  con* 
Bciousness  that  the  words  she  heard  came  from  her  husband. 

‘‘Better  lose  no  time,  then,”  said  Tito,  with  unmixed  suavity, 
moving  his  cap  found  in  his  hands  as  if  he  were  about  to  put 
it  on  and  depart.  “And  now,  Romola,  you  will  perhaps  be 
able  to  see,  in  spite  of  prejudice,  that  my  wishes  go  with  yours 
in  this  matter.  You  will  not  regard  the  misfortune  of  my 
safety  as  an  offence.” 

Something  like  an  electric  shock  passed  through  Romola :  it 
was  the  full  consciousness  of  her  husband’s  presence  returning 
to  her.  She  looked  at  him  without  speaking. 

“At  least,”  he  added,  in  a  slightly  harder  tone,  “you  will 
endeavor  to  base  our  intercourse  on  some  other  reasonings 
than  that  because  an  evil  deed  is  possible,  I  have  done  it.  Am 
I  alone  to  be  beyond  the  pale  of  your  extensive  charity  ?  ” 

The  feeling  which  had  been  driven  back  from  Romola’s  lips 
a  fortnight  before  rose  again  with  the  gathered  force  of  a 
tidal  wave.  She  spoke  with  a  decision  which  told  him  that 
she  was  careless  of  consequences. 

“  It  is  too  late,  Tito.  There  is  no  killing  the  suspicion  that 
deceit  has  once  begotten.  And  now  I  know  everything.  I 
know  who  that  old  man  was  :  he  was  your  father,  to  whom 
you  owe  everything  —  to  whom  you  owe  more  than  if  you  had 
been  his  own  child.  By  the  side  of  that,  it  is  a  small  thing 
that  you  broke  my  trust  and  my  father’s.  As  long  as  you 
deny  the  truth  about  that  old  man,  there  is  a  horror  rising 
between  us  :  the  law  that  should  make  us  one  can  never  be 
obeyed.  I  too  am  a  human  being.  I  have  a  soul  of  my  own 
that  abhors  your  actions.  Our  union  is  a  pretence  —  as  if  a 
perpetual  lie  could  be  a  sacred  marriage.” 

Tito  did  not  answer  immediately.  When  he  did  speak  it 
was  with  a  calculated  caution,  that  was  stimulated  by  alarm. 

“  And  you  mean  to  carry  out  that  independence  by  quitting 
me,  I  presume  ?  ” 

“  I  desire  to  quit  you,”  said  Romola,  impetuously. 

“  And  supposing  I  do  not  submit  to  part  with  what  the  law 
gives  me  some  security  for  retaining  ?  You  will  then,  of 
course,  proclaim  your  reasons  in  the  ear  of  all  Florence.  You 


A  FINAL  UNDERSTANDING. 


107 


will  bring  forward  your  mad  assassin,  who  is  doubtless  ready 
to  obey  your  call,  and  you  will  tell  the  world  that  you  believe 
his  testimony  because  he  is  so  rational  as  to  desire  to  assassi¬ 
nate  me.  You  will  first  inform  the  Siguoria  that  I  am  a  Medi- 
cean  conspirator,  and  then  you  will  inform  the  Mediceans  that 
I  have  betrayed  them,  and  in  both  cases  you  will  offer  the 
excellent  proof  that  you  believe  me  capable  in  general  of 
everything  bad.  It  will  certainly  be  a  striking  position  for 
a  wife  to  adopt.  And  if,  on  such  evidence,  you  succeed  in 
holding  me  up  to  infamy,  you  will  have  surpassed  all  the 
heroines  of  the  Greek  drama.” 

He  paused  a  moment,  but  she  stood  mute.  He  went  on 
with  the  sense  of  mastery. 

“  I  believe  you  have  no  other  grievance  against  me  —  except 
that  I  have  failed  in  fulfilling  some  lofty  indefinite  conditions 
on  which  you  gave  me  your  wifely  affection,  so  that,  by  with¬ 
drawing  it,  you  have  gradually  reduced  me  to  the  careful  sup¬ 
ply  of  your  wants  as  a  fair  Piagnone  of  high  condition  and 
liberal  charities.  I  think  your  success  in  gibbeting  me  is  not 
certain.  But  doubtless  you  would  begin  by  winning  the  ear 
of  Messer  Bernardo  del  Nero  ?  ” 

“  Why  do  I  speak  of  anything  ?  ”  cried  Bomola,  in  anguish, 
sinking  on  her  chair  again.  “  It  is  hateful  in  me  to  be  think¬ 
ing  of  myself.” 

She  did  not  notice  when  Tito  left  the  room,  or  know  how 
long  it  was  before  the  door  opened  to  admit  Monna  Brigida,. 
But  in  that  instant  she  started  up  and  said  — 

“Cousin,  we  must  go  to  San  Marco  directly.  I  must  sec 
my  confessor,  Fra  Salvestro.” 


108 


BOMOUL 


CHAPTER  LIX. 

PLEADING. 

The  morning  was  in  its  early  brightness  when  Romola  was 
again  on  her  way  to  San  Marco,  having  obtained  through  Era 
Salvestro,  the  evening  before,  the  promise  of  an  interview 
with  Fra  Girolamo  in  the  chapter-house  of  the  convent.  The 
rigidity  with  which  Savonarola  guarded  his  life  from  all  the 
pretexts  of  calumny  made  such  interviews  very  rare,  and 
whenever  they  were  granted,  they  were  kept  free  from  any 
appearance  of  mystery.  For  this  reason  the  hour  chosen  was 
one  at  which  there  were  likely  to  be  other  visitors  in  the  outer 
cloisters  of  San  Marco. 

She  chose  to  pass  through  the  heart  of  the  city  that  she 
might  notice  the  signs  of  public  feeling.  Every  loggia,  every 
convenient  corner  of  the  piazza,  every  shop  that  made  a  ren¬ 
dezvous  for  gossips,  was  astir  with  the  excitement  of  gratui¬ 
tous  debate ;  a  languishing  trade  tending  to  make  political 
discussion  all  the  more  vigorous.  It  was  clear  that  the  parties 
for  and  against  the  death  of  the  conspirators  were  bent  on 
making  the  fullest  use  of  the  three  days’  interval  in  order  to 
determine  the  popular  mood.*  Already  handbills  were  in  cir¬ 
culation  ;  some  presenting,  in  large  print,  the  alternative  of 
justice  on  the  conspirators  or  ruin  to  the  Republic ;  others  in 
equally  large  print  urging  the  observance  of  the  law  and  the 
granting  of  the  Appeal.  Round  these  jutting  islets  of  black 
capitals  there  were  lakes  of  smaller  characters  setting  forth 
arguments  less  necessary  to  be  read :  for  it  was  an  opinion 
entertained  at  that  time  (in  the  first  flush  of  triumph  at  the 
discovery  of  printing),  that  there  was  no  argument  more 
widely  convincing  than  question-begging  phrases  in  large 
type. 

Romola,  however,  cared  especially  to  become  acquainted 
with  the  arguments  in  smaller  type,  and,  though  obliged  to 


PLEADING. 


109 


hasten  forward,  she  looked  round  anxiously  as  she*went  that 
she  might  miss  no  opportunity  of  securing  copies.  For  a  long 
way  she  saw  none  but  such  as  were  in  the  hands  of  eager 
readers,  or  else  fixed  on  the  walls,  from  which  in  some  places 
the  sbirri  were  tearing  them  down.  But  at  last,  passing 
behind  San  Giovanni  with  a  quickened  pace  that  she  might 
avoid  the  many  acquaintances  who  frequented  the  piazza,  she 
saw  Bratti  with  a  stock  of  handbills  which  he  appeared  to  be 
exchanging  for  small  coin  with  the  passers-by.  She  was  too 
familiar  with  the  humble  life  of  Florence  for  Bratti  to  be  any 
stranger  to  her,  and  turning  towards  him  she  said,  “  Have  yon 
two  sorts  of  handbills,  Bratti  ?  Let  me  have  them  quickly.” 

^‘Two  sorts,”  said  Bratti,  separating  the  wet  sheets  with  a 
slowness  that  tried  Romola’s  patience.  “  There ’s  ‘  Law,’  and 
there ’s  ‘Justice.’  ” 

“  Which  sort  do  you  sell  most  of  ?  ” 

“‘Justice’  —  ‘Justice’  goes  the  quickest, — so  I  raised  the 
price,  and  made  it  two  danari.  But  then  I  bethought  me 
the  ‘  Law  ’  was  good  ware  too,  and  had  as  good  a  right  to  be 
charged  for  as  ‘Justice;’  for  people  set  no  store# by  cheap 
things,  and  if  I  sold  the  ‘Law’  at  one  danaro,  I  should  be 
doing  it  a  wrong.  And  I’m  a  fair  trader.  ‘Law,’  or  ‘Justice,’ 
it ’s  all  one  to  me ;  they  ’re  good  wares.  I  got  ’em  both  for 
nothing,  and  I  sell  ’em  at  a  fair  profit.  But  you  ’ll  want  more 
than  one  of  a  sort  ?  ” 

“No,  no:  here’s  a  wifite  quattrino  for  the  two,”  said  Eomola, 
folding  up  the  bills  and  hurrying  away. 

She  was  soon  in  the  outer  cloisters  of  San  Marco,  where  Fra 
Salvestro  was  awaking  her  under  the  cloister,  but  did  not 
notice  the  approach  of  her  light  step.  He  was  chatting,  ac¬ 
cording  to  his  habit,  with  lay  visitors ;  for  under  the  auspices 
of  a  government  friendly  to  the  Frate,  the  timidity  about  fre¬ 
quenting  San  Marco,  which  had  followed  on  the  first  shock  of 
the  Excommunication,  had  been  gradually  giving  way.  In 
one  of  these  lay  visitors  she  recognized  a  well-known  satellite 
of  Francesco  Valori,  named  Andrea  Cambini,  who  was  nar¬ 
rating  or  expounding  with  emphatic  gesticulation,  while  Fra 
Salvestro  was  listening  with  that  air  of  trivial  curiosity  which 


110 


ROMOLA. 


tells  that* the  listener  cares  very  much  about  news  and  very 
little  about  its  quality.  This  characteristic  of  her  confessor, 
which  was  always  repulsive  to  Romola,  was  made  exasperat¬ 
ing  to  her  at  this  moment  by  the  certainty  she  gathered,  from 
the  disjointed  words  which  reached  her  ear,  that  Cambini  was 
narrating  something  relative  to  the  fate  of  the  conspirators. 
She  chose  not  to  approach  the  group,  but  as  soon  as  she  saw 
that  she  had  arrested  Fra  Salvestro’s  attention,  she  turned 
towards  the  door  of  the  chapter-house,  while  he,  making  a 
sign  of  approval,  disappeared  within  the  inner  cloister.  A  lay 
Brother  stood  ready  to  open  the  door  of  the  chapter-house  for 
her,  and  closed  it  behind  her  as  she  entered. 

Once  more  looked  at  by  those  sad  frescoed  figures  which 
had  seemed  to  be  mourning  with  her  at  the  death  of  her 
brother  Dino,  it  was  inevitable  that  something  of  that  scene 
should  come  back  to  her ;  but  the  intense  occupation  of  her 
mind  with  the  present  made  the  remembrance  less  a  retrospect 
than  an  indistinct  recurrence  of  impressions  which  blended 
themselves  with  her  agitating  fears,  as  if  her  actual  anxiety 
were  a  r^ival  of  the  strong  yearning  she  had  once  before 
brought  to  this  spot  —  to  be  repelled  by  marble  rigidity.  She 
gave  no  space  for  the  remembrance  to  become  more  definite, 
for  she  at  once  opened  the  handbills,  thinking  she  should 
perhaps  be  able  to  read  them  in  the  interval  before  Fra 
Girolamo  appeared.  But  by  the  time  she  had  read  to  the 
end  of  the  one  that  recommended  the  observance  of  the  law, 
the  door  was  opening,  and  doubling  up  the  papers  she  stood 
expectant. 

When  the  Frate  had  entered  she  knelt,  according  to  the 
usual  practice  of  those  who  saw  him  in  private ;  but  as  soon 
as  he  had  uttered  a  benedictory  greeting  she  rose  and  stood 
opposite  to  him  at  a  few  yards’  distance.  Owing  to  his  seclu¬ 
sion  since  he  had  been  excommunicated,  it  had  been  an  unusu¬ 
ally  long  while  since  she  had  seen  him,  and  the  late  months 
had  visibly  deepened  in  his  face  the  marks  of  overtaxed 
mental  activity  and  bodily  severities ;  and  yet  Romola  was 
not  so  conscious  of  this  change  as  of  another,  which  was  less 
definable.  Was  it  that  the  expression  of  serene  elevation  and 


PLEADING. 


Ill 


pure  human  fellowship  which  had  once  moved  her  was  no 
longer  present  in  the  same  force,  or  was  it  that  the  sense  of 
his  being  divided  from,  her  in  her  feeling  about  her  godfather 
roused  the  slumbering  sources  of  alienation,  and  marred  her 
own  vision  ?  Perhaps  both  causes  were  at  work.  Our  rela¬ 
tions  with  our  fellow-men  are  most  often  determined  by  co¬ 
incident  currents  of  that  sort ;  the  inexcusable  word  or  deed 
seldom  comes  until  after  affection  or  reverence  has  been 
already  enfeebled  by  the  strain  of  repeated  excuses. 

It  was  true  that  Savonarola’s  glance  at  Komola  had  some  of 
that  hardness  which  is  caused  by  an  egotistic  prepossession. 
He  divined  that  the  interview  she  had  sought  was  to  turn  on 
the  fate  of  the  conspirators,  a  subject  on  which  he  had  already 
had  to  quell  inner  voices  that  might  become  loud  again  when 
encouraged  from  without.  Seated  in  his  cell,  correcting  the 
sheets  of  his  “  Triumph  of  the  Cross,”  it  was  easier  to  repose 
on  a  resolution  of  neutrality. 

“  It  is  a  question  of  moment,  doubtless,  on  which  you  wished 
to  see  me,  my  daughter,”  he  began,  in  a  tone  which  was  gentle 
rather  from  self-control  than  from  immediate  inclination.  “  I 
know  you  are  not  wont  to  lay  stress  on  small  matters.” 

“  Father,  you  know  what  it  is  before  I  tell  you,”  said  Komola, 
forgetting  everything  else  as  soon  as  she  began  to  pour  forth 
her  plea.  “You  know  what  I  am  caring  for  —  it  is  for  the 
life  of  the  old  man  I  love  best  in  the  world.  The  thought  of 
him  has  gone  together  with  the  thought  of  my  father  as  long 
as  I  remember  the  daylight.  That  is  my  warrant  for  coming 
to  you,  even  if  my  coming  should  have  been  needless.  Per¬ 
haps  it  is :  perhaps  you  have  already  determined  that  your 
power  over  the  hearts  of  men  shall  be  used  to  prevent  them 
from  denying  to  Florentines  a  right  which  you  yourself  helped 
to  earn  for  them.” 

“  I  meddle  not  with  the  functions  of  the  State,  my  daughter,” 
said  Fra  Girolamo,  strongly  disinclined  to  reopen  externally 
a  debate  which  he  had  already  gone  through  inwardly.  “  I 
have  preached  and  labored  that  Florence  should  have  a  good 
government,  for  a  good  government  is  needful  to  the  perfect¬ 
ing  of  the  Christian  life  :  but  I  keep  away  my  hands  from 


112  KOMOLA. 

particular  affairs  which  it  is  the  office  of  experienced  citizens 
to  administer.’’ 

“Surely,  father  —  ”  Eomola  broke  off.  She  had  uttered 
this  first  word  almost  impetuously,  but  she  was  checked  by  the 
counter-agitation  of  feeling  herself  in  an  attitude  of  remon¬ 
strance  towards  the  man  who  had  been  the  source  of  guidance 
and  strength  to  her.  In  the  act  of  rebelling  she  was  bruising 
her  own  reverence. 

Savonarola  was  too  keen  not  to  divine  something  of  the  con¬ 
flict  that  was  arresting  her  —  too  noble,  deliberately  to  assume 
in  calm  speech  that  self-justifying  evasiveness  into  which  he 
was  often  hurried  in  public  by  the  crowding  impulses  of  the 
orator. 

“  Say  what  is  in  your  heart ;  speak  on,  my  daughter,”  he 
said,  standing  with  his  arms  laid  one  upon  the  other,  and  look 
ing  at  her  with  quiet  expectation. 

“  I  was  going  to  say,  father,  that  this  matter  is  surely  of 
higher  moment  than  many  about  which  I  have  heard  you 
preach  and  exhort  fervidly.  If  it  belonged  to  you  to  urge 
that  men  condemned  for  offences  against  the  State  should  have 
the  right  to  appeal  to  the  Great  Council  —  if  —  ”  Eomola  was 
getting  eager  again  —  “  if  you  count  it  a  glory  to  have  won 
that  right  for  them,  can  it  less  belong  to  you  to  declare  your- 
5elf  against  the  right  being  denied  to  almost  the  first  men  who 
need  it  ?  Surely  that  touches  the  Christian  life  more  closely 
than  whether  you  knew  beforehand  that  the  Dauphin  would 
die,  or  whether  Pisa  will  be  conquered.” 

There  was  a  subtle  movement,  like  a  subdued  sign  of  pain, 
in  Savonarola’s  strong  lips,  before  he  began  to  speak. 

“  My  daughter,  I  speak  as  it  is  given  me  to  speak  —  I  am 
not  master  of  the  times  when  I  may  become  the  vehicle  of 
knowledge  beyond  the  common  lights  of  men.  In  this  case  I 
have  no  illumination  beyond  what  wisdom  may  give  to  those 
who  are  charged  with  the  safety  of  the  State.  As  to  the  law 
of  Appeal  against  the  Six  Votes,  I  labored  to  have  it  passed 
in  order  that  no  Florentine  should  be  subject  to  loss  of  life 
and  goods  through  the  private  hatred  of  a  few  who  might 
happen  to  be  in  power ;  but  these  five  men,  who  have  desired 


PLEADING. 


113 


to  overthrow  a  free  government  and  restore  a  corrupt  tyrant, 
have  been  condemned  with  the  assent  of  a  large  assembly  of 
their  fellow-citizens.  They  refused  at  first  to  have  their  cause 
brought  before  the  Great  Council.  They  have  lost  the  right 
to  the  appeal.” 

“  How  can  they  have  lost  it  ?  ”  said  Eomola.  “  It  is  the 
right  to  appeal  against  condemnation,  and  they  have  never 
been  condemned  till  now ;  and,  forgive  me,  father,  it  is  private 
hatred  that  would  deny  them  the  appeal ;  it  is  the  violence  of 
the  few  that  frightens  others  ;  else  why  was  the  assembly 
divided  again  directly  after  it  had  seemed  to  agree  ?  And  if 
anything  weighs  against  the  observance  of  the  law,  let  this 
weigh  for  it  —  this,  that  you.  used  to  preach  more  earnestly 
than  all  else,  that  there  should  be  no  place  given  to  hatred  and 
bloodshed  because  of  these  party  strifes,  so  that  private  ill- 
will  should  not  find  its  opportunities  in  public  acts.  Father, 
you  knoiu  that  there  is  private  hatred  concerned  here :  will  it 
not  dishonor  you  not  to  have  interposed  on  the  side  of  mercy, 
when  there  are  many  who  hold  that  it  is  also  the  side  of  lav? 
and  justice  ?  ” 

“  My  daughter,”  said  Fra  Girolamo,  with  more  visible  emo¬ 
tion  than  before,  “  there  is  a  mercy  which  is  weakness,  and 
even  treason  against  the  common  good.  The  safety  of  Flor¬ 
ence,  which  means  even  more  than  the  welfare  of  Florentines, 
now  demands  severity,  as  it  once  demanded  mercy.  It  is  not 
only  for  a  past  plot  that  these  men  are  condemned,  but  also 
for  a  plot  which  has  not  yet  been  executed  ;  and  the  devices 
that  were  leading  to  its  execution  are  not  put  an  end  to  :  the 
tyrant  is  still  gathering  his  forces  in  Eomagna,  and  the  ene¬ 
mies  of  Florence,  who  sit  in  the  highest  places  of  Italy,  are 
ready  to  hurl  any  stone  that  will  crush  her.” 

“  What  plot  ?  ”  said  Eomola,  reddening,  and  trembling  with 
alarmed  surprise. 

“  You  carry  papers  in  your  hand,  I  see,”  said  Fra  Girolamo, 
pointing  to  the  handbills.  “  One  of  them  will,  perhaps,  tell 
you  that  the  government  has  had  new  information.” 

Eomola  hastily  opened  the  handbill  she  had  not  yet  read, 
and  saw  that  the  government  had  now  positive  evidence  of  a 

\  OI,.  VI. 


114 


SOMOLA. 


second  plot,  which  was  to  have  been  carried  out  in  this  August 
time.  To  her  mind  it  was  like  reading  a  confirmation  that 
Tito  had  won  his  safety  by  foul  means ;  his  pretence  of  wish¬ 
ing  that  the  Frate  should  exert  himself  on  behalf  of  the  con¬ 
demned  only  helped  the  wretched  conviction.  She  crushed  up 
the  paper  in  her  hand,  and,  turning  to  Savonarola,  she  said, 
with  new  passion,  Father,  what  safety  can  there  be  for  Flor¬ 
ence  when  the  worst  man  can  always  escape  ?  And,”  she 
went  on,  a  sudden  flash  of  remembrance  coming  from  the 
thought  about  her  husband,  “  have  not  you  yourself  encour¬ 
aged  this  deception  which  corrupts  the  life  of  Florence,  by 
wanting  more  favor  to  be  shown  to  Lorenzo  Tornabuoni,  who 
has  worn  two  faces,  and  flattered  you  with  a  show  of  affection, 
when  my  godfather  has  always  been  honest  ?  Ask  all  Flor¬ 
ence  who  of  those  five  men  has  the  truest  heart,  and  there  will 
not  be  many  who  will  name  any  other  name  than  Bernardo 
del  Nero.  You  did  interpose  with  Francesco  Valori  for  the 
sake  of  one  prisoner :  you  have  nof  then  been  neutral ;  and 
you  know  that  your  word  will  be  powerful.” 

“  1  do  not  desire  the  death  of  Bernardo,”  said  Savonarola, 
coloring  deeply.  It  would  be  enough  if  he  were  sent  out  of 
the  city.” 

“  Then  why  do  you  not  speak  to  save  an  old  man  of  seventy- 
five  from  dying  a  death  of  ignominy  —  to  give  him  at  least 
the  fair  chances  of  the  law  ?  ”  burst  out  Komola,  the  impetu¬ 
osity  of  her  nature  so  roused  that  she  forgot  everything  but 
her  indignation.  “  It  is  not  that  you  feel  bound  to  be  neu¬ 
tral  ;  else  why  did  you  speak  for  Lorenzo  Tornabuoni  ?  You 
spoke  for  him  because  he  is  more  friendly  to  San  Marco ;  my 
godfather  feigns  no  friendship.  It  is  not,  then,  as  a  Medicean 
that  my  godfather  is  to  die ;  it  is  as  a  man  you  have  no  love 
for  !  ” 

When  Romola  paused,  with  cheeks  glowing,  and  with  quiv¬ 
ering  lips,  there  was  dead  silence.  As  she  saw  Fra  Girolamo 
standing  motionless  before  her,  she  seemed  to  herself  to  be 
hearing  her  own  words  over  again ;  words  that  in  this  echo  of 
consciousness  were  in  strange,  painful  dissonance  with  the 
memories  that  made  part  of  his  presence  to  her.  The  mo- 


PLEADING. 


115 


ments  of  silence  were  expanded  by  gathering  compunction  and 
self-doubt.  She  had  committed  sacrilege  in  her  passion.  And 
even  the  sense  that  she  could  retract  nothing  of  her  plea,  that 
her  mind  could  not  submit  itself  to  Savonarola’s  negative, 
made  it  the  more  needful  to  her  to  satisfy  those  reverential 
memories.  With  a  sudden  movement  towards  him  she  said  — 

“  Forgive  me,  father  ;  it  is  pain  to  me  to  have  spoken  those 
words  —  yet  I  cannot  help  speaking.  I  am  little  and  feeble 
compared  with  you ;  you  brought  me  light  and  strength.  But 
I  submitted  because  I  felt  the  proffered  strength  —  because  I 
saw  the  light.  Now  I  cannot  see  it.  Father,  you  yourself 
declare  that  there  comes  a  moment  when  the  soul  must  have 
no  guide  but  the  voice  within  it,  to  tell  whether  the  conse¬ 
crated  thing  has  sacred  virtue.  And  therefore  I  must  speak.” 

Savonarola  had  that  readily  roused  resentment  towards  on- 
position,  hardly  separable  from  a  power-loving  and  powerful 
nature,  accustomed  to  seek  great  ends  that  cast  a  reflected 
grandeur  on  the  means  by  which  they  are  sought.  His  ser¬ 
mons  have  much  of  that  red  flame  in  them.  And  if  he  had 
been  a  meaner  man  his  susceptibility  might  have  shown  itself 
in  irritation  at  Romola’s  accusatory  freedom,  which  was  in 
strong  contrast  with  the  deference  he  habitually  received  from 
his  disciples.  But  at  this  moment  such  feelings  were  nullified 
by  that  hard  struggle  which  made  half  the  tragedy  of  his  life 
—  the  struggle  of  a  mind  possessed  by  a  never-silent  hunger 
after  purity  and  simplicity,  yet  caught  in  a  tangle  of  egoistic 
demands,  false  ideas,  and  difficult  outward  conditions,  tliat 
made  simplicity  impossible.  Keenly  alive  to  all  the  sugges¬ 
tions  of  Romola’s  remonstrating  words,  he  was  rapidly  sur¬ 
veying,  as  he  had  done  before,  the  courses  of  action  that  were 
open  to  him,  and  their  probable  results.  But  it  was  a  question 
on  which  arguments  could  seem  decisive  only  in  proportion  as 
they  were  charged  with  feeling,  and  he  had  received  no  im¬ 
pulse  that  could  alter  his  bias.  He  looked  at  Romola,  and 
said  — 

‘‘  You  have  full  pardon  for  your  frankness,  my  daughter. 
You  speak,  I  know,  out  of  the  fulness  of  your  family  affec¬ 
tions.  But  these  affections  must  give  way  to  the  needs  of  the 


116 


EOMOLA. 


Republic.  If  those  men  who  have  a  close  acquaintance  with 
the  affairs  of  the  State  believe,  as  I  understand  they  do,  that 
the  public  safety  requires  the  extreme  punishment  of  the  law 
to  fall  on  the  five  conspirators,  I  cannot  control  their  opinion, 
seeing  that  I  stand  aloof  from  such  affairs.” 

“  Then  you  desire  that  they  should  die  ?  You  desire  that 
the  Appeal  should  be  denied  them  ?  ”  said  Eomola,  feeling 
anew  repelled  by  a  vindication  which  seemed  to  her  to  have 
the  nature  of  a  subterfuge. 

“  I  have  said  that  I  do  not  desire  their  death.” 

“  Then,”  said  Romola,  her  indignation  rising  again,  “  you 
can  be  indifferent  that  Florentines  should  inflict  death  which 
you  do  not  desire,  when  you  might  have  protested  against  it 
—  when  you  might  have  helped  to  hinder  it,  by  urging  the 
observance  of  a  law  which  you  held  it  good  to  get  passed. 
Father,  you  used  not  to  stand  aloof  :  you  used  not  to  shrink 
from  protesting.  Do  not  say  you  cannot  protest  where  the 
lives  of  men  are  concerned ;  say  rather,  you  desire  their 
death.  Say  rather,  you  hold  it  good  for  Florence  that  there 
shall  be  more  blood  and  more  hatred.  Will  the  death  of  five 
Mediceans  put  an  end  to  parties  in  Florence  ?  Will  the  death 
of  a  noble  old  man  like  Bernardo  del  Nero  save  a  city  that 
holds  such  men  as  Dolfo  Spini  ?  ” 

“  My  daughter,  it  is  enough.  The  cause  of  freedom,  which 
is  the  cause  of  God’s  kingdom  upon  earth,  is  often  most  in¬ 
jured  by  the  enemies  who  carry  within  them  the  power  of 
certain  human  virtues.  The  wickedest  man  is  often  not  the 
most  insurmountable  obstacle  to  the  triumph  of  good.” 

“  Then  why  do  you  say  again,  that  you  do  not  desire  my 
godfather’s  death  ?  ”  said  Eomola,  in  mingled  anger  and  de¬ 
spair.  “  Rather,  you  hold  it  the  more  needful  he  should  die 
because  he  is  the  better  man.  I  cannot  unravel  your  thoughts, 
father ;  I  cannot  hear  the  real  voice  of  your  judgment  and 
conscience.” 

There  was  a  moment’s  pause.  Then  Savonarola  said,  with 
keener  emotion  than  he  had  yet  shown  — 

“  Be  thankful,  my  daughter,  if  your  own  soul  has  been 
spared  perplexity  ;  and  judge  not  those  to  whom  a  harder  lot 


PLEADING. 


117 


has  been  given.  You  see  one  ground  of  action  in  this  matter. 
I  see  many.  I  have  to  choose  that  which  will  further  the 
work  intrusted  to  me.  The  end  I  seek  is  one  to  which  minor 
respects  must  be  sacrificed.  The  death  of  five  men  —  were 
they  less  guilty  than  these  —  is  a  light  matter  weighed  against 
the  withstanding  of  the  vicious  tyrannies  which  stifle  the  life 
of  Italy,  and  foster  the  corruption  of  the  Church ;  a  light 
matter  weighed  against  the  furthering  of  God’s  kingdom 
upon  earth,  the  end  for  which  I  live  and  am  willing  myself 
to  die.” 

Under  any  other  circumstances,  Eomola  would  have  been 
sensitive  to  the  appeal  at  the  beginning  of  Savonarola’s  speech ; 
but  at  this  moment  she  was  so  utterly  in  antagonism  with 
him,  that  what  he  called  perplexity  seemed  to  her  sophistry 
and  doubleness ;  and  as  he  went  on,  his  words  only  fed  that 
flame  of  indignation,  which  now  again,  more  fully  than  ever 
before,  lit  up  the  memory  of  all  his  mistakes,  and  made  her 
trust  in  him  seem  to  have  been  a  purblind  delusion.  She 
spoke  almost  with  bitterness. 

“  Do  you,  then,  know  so  well  what  will  further  the  coming 
of  God’s  kingdom,  father,  that  you  will  dare  to  despise  the 
plea  of  mercy  —  of  justice  —  of  faithfulness  to  your  own 
teaching  ?  Has  the  French  king,  then,  brought  renovation  to 
Italy  ?  Take  care,  father,  lest  your  enemies  have  some  reason 
when  they  say,  that  in  your  visions  of  what  will  further  God’s 
kingdom  you  see  only  what  will  strengthen  your  own  party.” 

“  And  tliat  is  true  !  ”  said  Savonarola,  with  flashing  eyes. 
Romola’s  voice  had  seemed  to  him  in  that  moment  the  voice 
of  his  enemies.  “  The  cause  of  my  party  is  the  cause  of  God’s 
kingdom.” 

“  I  do  not  believe  it  !  ”  said  Romola,  her  whole  frame 
shaken  with  passionate  repugnance.  “  God’s  kingdom  is  some¬ 
thing  wider  —  else,  let  me  stand  outside  it  with  the  beings 
that  I  love.” 

The  two  faces  were  lit  up,  each  with  an  opposite  emotion, 
each  with  an  opposite  certitude.  Further  words  were  impos¬ 
sible.  Eomola  hastily  covered  her  head  and  went  out  in 
silence. 


118 


ROMOLA. 


CHAPTER  LX. 

THE  SCAFFOLD. 

Three  days  later  the  moon  that  was  just  surmounting  the 
buildings  of  the  piazza  in  front  of  the  Old  Palace  within  the 
hour  of  midnight,  did  not  make  the  usual  broad  lights  and 
shadows  on  the  pavement.  Not  a  hand’s-breadth  of  pavement 
was  to  be  seen,  but  only  the  heads  of  an  eager  struggling  mul¬ 
titude.  And  instead  of  that  background  of  silence  in  which 
the  pattering  footsteps  and  buzzing  voices,  the  lute-thrumming 
or  rapid  scampering  of  the  many  night  wanderers  of  Florence 
stood  out  in  obtrusive  distinctness,  there  was  the  background 
of  a  roar  from  mingled  shouts  and  imprecations,  tramplings 
and  pushings,  and  accidental  clashing  of  weapons,  across 
which  nothing  was  distinguishable  but  a  darting  shriek,  or 
the  heavy  dropping  toll  of  a  bell. 

Almost  all  who  could  call  themselves  the  public  of  Florence 
were  awake  at  that  hour,  and  either  enclosed  within  the  limits 
of  that  piazza,  or  struggling  to  enter  it.  Within  the  palace 
were  still  assembled  in  the  council  chamber  all  the  chief 
magistracies,  the  eighty  members  of  the  senate,  and  the  other 
select  citizens  who  had  been  in  hot  debate  through  long  hours 
of  daylight  and  torchlight  whether  the  Appeal  should  be 
granted  or  whether  the  sentence  of  death  should  be  executed 
on  the  prisoners  forthwith,  to  forestall  the  dangerous  chances 
of  delay.  And  the  debate  had  been  so  much  like  fierce  quarrel 
that  the  noise  from  the  council  chamber  had  reached  the 
crowd  outside.  Only  within  the  last  hour  had  the  question 
been  decided :  the  Signoria  Had  remained  divided,  four  of 
them  standing  out  resolutely  for  the  Appeal  in  spite  of  the 
strong  argument  that  if  they  did  not  give  way  their  houses 
should  be  sacked,  until  Francesco  Valori,  in  brief  and  furious 
.speech,  made  the  determination  of  his  party  more  ominously 
distinct  by  declaring  that  if  the  Signoria  would  not  defend 


Niccolo  Macciiiavelli 


THE  SCAFFOLD. 


119 


the  liberties  of  the  Florentine  people  by  executing  those  live 
perfidious  citizens,  there  would  not  be  wanting  others  who 
would  take  that  cause  in  hand  to  the  peril  of  all  who  opposed 
it.  The  Florentine  Cato  triumphed.  When  the  votes  were 
counted  again,  the  four  obstinate  white  beans  no  longer  ap¬ 
peared  ;  the  whole  nine  were  of  the  fatal  affirmative  black, 
deciding  the  death  of  the  five  prisoners  without  delay  — 
deciding  also,  only  tacitly  and  with  much  more  delay,  the 
death  of  Francesco  Valori. 

And  now,  while  the  judicial  Eight  were  gone  to  the  Bargello 
to  prepare  for  the  execution,  the  five  condemned  men  were 
being  led  barefoot  and  in  irons  through  the  midst  of  the  coun¬ 
cil.  It  was  their  friends  who  had  contrived  this :  would  not 
Florentines  be  moved  by  the  visible  association  of  such  cruel 
ignominy  with  two  venerable  men  like  Bernardo  del  Nero  and 
Niccolo  Ridolfi,  who  had  taken  their  bias  long  before  the  new 
order  of  things  had  come  to  make  Mediceanism  retrograde — ■ 
with  two  brilliant  popular  young  men  like  Tornabuoni  and 
Pucci,  whose  absence  would  be  felt  as  a  haunting  vacancy 
wherever  there  was  a  meeting  of  chief  Florentines  ?  It  was 
useless  :  such  pity  as  could  be  awakened  now  was  of  that  hope¬ 
less  sort  which  leads  not  to  rescue,  but  to  the  tardier  action  of 
revenge. 

While  this  scene  was  passing  up-stairs  Komola  stood  below 
against  one  of  the  massive  pillars  in  the  court  of  the  palace, 
expecting  the  moment  when  her  godfather  would  appear,  on 
his  way  to  execution.  By  the  use  of  strong  interest  she  had 
gained  permission  to  visit  him  in  the  evening  of  this  day,  and 
remain  with  him  until  the  result  of  the  council  should  be  de¬ 
termined.  And  now  she  was  waiting  with  his  confessor  to 
follow  the  guard  that  would  lead  him  to  the  Bargello.  Her 
heart  was  bent  on  clinging  to  the  presence  of  the  childless 
old  man  to  the  last  moment,  as  her  father  would  have  done ; 
and  she  had  overpowered  all  remonstrances.  Giovan  Battista 
Ridolfi,  a  disciple  of  Savonarola,  who  was  going  in  bitterness 
to  behold  the  death  of  his  elder  brother  Niccolh,  had  promised 
that  she  should  be  guarded,  and  now  stood  by  her  side. 

Tito,  too,  was  in  the  palace ;  but  Romola  had  not  seen  him. 


120 


ROMOLA. 


Since  the  evening  of  the  17th  they  had  avoided  each  other, 
and  Tito  only  knew  by  inference  from  the  report  of  the  Frate’s 
neutrality  that  her  jjleading  had  failed.  He  was  now  sur¬ 
rounded  with  official  and  other  personages,  both  Florentine 
and  foreign,  who  had  been  awaiting  the  issue  of  the  long- 
protracted  council,  maintaining,  except  when  he  was  directly 
addressed,  the  subdued  air  and  grave  silence  of  a  man  whom 
actual  events  are  placing  in  a  painful  state  of  strife  between 
public  and  private  feeling.  When  an  allusion  was  made  to 
his  wife  in  relation  to  those  events,  he  implied  that,  owing  to 
the  violent  excitement  of  her  mind,  the  mere  fact  of  his  con¬ 
tinuing  to  hold  office  under  a  government  concerned  in  her 
godfather’s  condemnation,  roused  in  her  a  diseased  hostility 
towards  him ;  so  that  for  her  sake  he  felt  it  best  not  to  ap¬ 
proach  her. 

Ah,  the  old  Bardi  blood  !  ”  said  Cennini,  with  a  shrug. 
“  I  shall  not  be  surprised  if  this  business  shakes  her  loose  from 
the  Frate,  as  well  as  some  others  I  could  name.” 

^‘It  is  excusable  in  a  woman,  who  is  doubtless  beautiful, 
since  she  is  the  wife  of  Messer  Tito,”  said  a  young  French 
envoy,  smiling  and  bowing  to  Tito,  to  think  that  her  affec¬ 
tions  must  overrule  the  good  of  the  State,  and  that  nobody 
is  to  be  beheaded  who  is  anybody’s  cousin ;  but  such  a  view  is 
not  to  be  encouraged  in  the  male  population.  It  seems  to  me 
your  Florentine  polity  is  much  weakened  by  it.” 

“That  is  true,”  said  Hiccolo  Macchiavelli ;  “but  where  per¬ 
sonal  ties  are  strong,  the  hostilities  they  raise  must  be  taken 
due  account  of.  Many  of  these  half-way  severities  are  mere 
hot-headed  blundering.  The  only  safe  blows  to  be  inflicted 
on  men  and  parties  are  the  blows  that  are  too  heavy  to  be 
avenged.” 

“Niccolo,”  said  Cennini,  “there  is  a  clever  wickedness  in 
thy  talk  sometimes  that  makes  me  mistrust  thy  pleasant  young 
face  as  if  it  were  a  mask  of  Satan.” 

“Not  at  all,  my  good  Domenico,”  said  Macchiavelli,  smiling, 
and  laying  his  hand  on  the  elder’s  shoulder.  “  Satan  was  a 
blunderer,  an  introducer  of  novita,  who  made  a  stupendous 
failure.  If  he  had  succeeded,  we  should  all  have  been 


THE  SCAFFOLD.  1 21 

worshipping  him,  and  his  portrait  would  have  been  more 
flattered.” 

“Well,  well,”  said  Cennini,  “I  say  not  thy  doctrine  is  not 
too  clever  for  Satan :  I  only  say  it  is  wicked  enough  for  him.” 

“  I  tell  you,”  said  Macchiavelli,  “  my  doctrine  is  the  doctrine 
of  all  men  who  seek  an  end  a  little  farther  off  than  their  own 
noses.  Ask  our  Frate,  our  prophet,  how  his  universal  reno¬ 
vation  is  to  be  brought  about :  he  will  tell  you,  first,  by  getting 
a  free  and  pure  government ;  and  since  it  appears  that  this 
cannot  be  done  by  making  all  Florentines  love  each  other,  it 
must  be  done  by  cutting  off  every  head  that  happens  to  be 
obstinately  in  the  way.  Only  if  a  man  incurs  odium  by  sanc¬ 
tioning  a  severity  that  is  not  thorough  enough  to  be  final,  he 
commits  a  blunder.  And  something  like  that  blunder,  I  sus- 
pect,  the  Frate  has  committed.  It  was  an  occasion  on  which 
he  might  have  won  some  lustre  by  exerting  himself  to  main¬ 
tain  the  Appeal ;  instead  of  that,  he  has  lost  lustre,  and  has 
gained  no  strength.” 

Before  any  one  else  could  speak,  there  came  the  expected 
announcement  that  the  prisoners  were  about  to  leave  the 
council  chamber  ;  and  the  majority  of  those  who  were  present 
hurried  towards  the  door,  intent  on  securing  the  freest  passage 
to  the  Bargello  in  the  rear  of  the  prisoners’  guard  ;  for  the 
scene  of  the  execution  was  one  that  drew  alike  those  who  were 
moved  by  the  deepest  passions  and  those  who  were  moved  by 
the  coldest  curiosity. 

Tito  was  one  of  those  who  remained  behind.  He  had  a 
native  repugnance  to  sights  of  death  and  pain,  and  five  days 
ago  whenever  he  had  thought  of  this  execution  as  a  possi¬ 
bility  he  had  hoped  that  it  would  not  take  place,  and  that  the 
utmost  sentence  would  be  exile  :  his  own  safety  demanded  no 
more.  But  now  he  felt  that  it  would  be  a  welcome  guarantee 
of  his  security  when  he  had  learned  that  Bernardo  del  Nero’s 
head  was  off  the  shoulders.  The  new  knowledge  and  new 
attitude  towards  him  disclosed  by  Romola  on  the  day  of  his 
return,  had  given  him  a  new  dread  of  the  power  she  possessed 
to  make  his  position  insecure.  If  any  act  of  hers  only  suc¬ 
ceeded  in  making  him  an  object  of  suspicion  and  odium,  he 


122 


ROMOLA. 


foresaw  not  only  frustration,  but  frustration  under  unpleasant 
circumstances.  Her  belief  in  Baldassarre  had  clearly  deter¬ 
mined  her  wavering  feelings  against  further  submission,  and 
if  her  godfather  lived  she  would  win  him  to  share  her  belief 
without  much  trouble.  Romola  seemed  more  than  ever  an 
unmanageable  fact  in  his  destiny.  But  if  Bernardo  del  Hero 
were  dead,  the  difficulties  that  would  beset  her  in  placing  her¬ 
self  in  opposition  to  her  husband  would  probably  be  insur¬ 
mountable  to  her  shrinking  pride.  Therefore  Tito  had  felt 
easier  when  he  knew  that  the  Eight  had  gone  to  the  Bargello 
to  order  the  instant  erection  of  the  scaffold.  Four  other  men 
—  his  intimates  and  confederates  —  were  to  die,  besides  Ber¬ 
nardo  del  Hero.  But  a  man’s  own  safety  is  a  god  that  some¬ 
times  makes  very  grim  demands.  Tito  felt  them  to  be  grim  : 
even  in  the  pursuit  of  what  was  agreeable,  this  paradoxical 
life  forced  upon  him  the  desire  for  what  was  disagreeable. 
But  he  had  had  other  experience  of  this  sort,  and  as  he  heard 
through  the  open  doorway  the  shuffle  of  many  feet  and  the 
clanking  of  metal  on  the  stairs,  he  was  able  to  answer  the 
questions  of  the  young  French  envoy  without  showing  signs 
of  any  other  feeling  than  that  of  sad  resignation  to  State 
necessities. 

Those  sounds  fell  on  Romola  as  if  her  power  of  hearing  had 
been  exalted  along  with  every  other  sensibility  of  her  nature. 
She  needed  no  arm  to  support  her ;  she  shed  no  tears.  She 
felt  that  intensity  of  life  which  seems  to  transcend  both  grief 
and  joy  —  in  which  the  mind  seems  to  itself  akin  to  elder 
forces  that  wrought  out  existence  before  the  birth  of  pleasure 
and  pain.  Since  her  godfather’s  fate  had  been  decided,  the 
previous  struggle  of  feeling  in  her  had  given  way  to  an  iden¬ 
tification  of  herself  with  him  in  these  supreme  moments  :  she 
was  inwardly  asserting  for  him  that,  if  he  suffered  the  pun¬ 
ishment  of  treason,  he  did  not  deserve  the  name  of  traitor  ;  he 
was  the  victim  to  a  collision  between  two  kinds  of  faithfulness. 
It  was  not  given  him  to  die  for  the  noblest  cause,  and  yet  he 
died  because  of  his  nobleness.  He  might  have  been  a  meaner 
man  and  found  it  easier  not  to  incur  this  guilt.  Romola  was 
feeling  the  full  force  of  that  sympathy  with  the  individual  lot 


THE  SCAFFOLD. 


123 


that  is  contint^‘'ly  opposing  itself  to  the  formulae  by  which 
actions  and  parties  are  judged.  She  was  treading  the  way 
with  her  second  father  to  the  scaffold,  and  nerving  herself  to 
defy  ignominy  by  the  consciousness  that  it  was  not  deserved. 

The  way  was  fenced  in  by  three  hundred  armed  men,  who 
had  been  placed  as  a  guard  by  the  orders  of  Francesco  Valori, 
for  among  the  apparent  contradictions  that  belonged  to  this 
event,  not  the  least  striking  was  the  alleged  alarm  on  the  one 
hand  at  the  popular  rage  against  the  conspirators,  and  the 
alleged  alarm  on  the  other  lest  there  should  be  an  attempt  to 
rescue  them  in  the  midst  of  a  hostile  crowd.  When  they  had 
arrived  within  the  court  of  the  Bargello,  Eomola  was  allowed 
to  approach  Bernardo  with  his  confessor  for  a  moment  of 
farewell.  Many  eyes  were  bent  on  them  even  in  that  struggle 
of  an  agitated  throng,  as  the  aged  man,  forgetting  that  his 
hands  were  bound  with  irons,  lifted  them  towards  the  golden 
head  that  was  bent  towards  him,  and  then,  checking  that 
movement,  leaned  to  kiss  her.  She  seized  the  fettered  hands 
that  were  hung  down  again,  and  kissed  them  as  if  they  had 
been  sacred  things. 

“  My  poor  Eomola,”  said  Bernardo,  in  a  low  voice,  “  I  have 
only  to  die,  but  thou  hast  to  live  —  and  I  shall  not  be  there  to 
help  thee.” 

“  Yes,”  said  Eomola,  hurriedly,  “  you  will  help  me  —  always 
—  because  I  shall  remember  you.” 

She  was  taken  away  and  conducted  up  the  flight  of  steps 
that  led  to  the  loggia  surrounding  the  grand  old  court.  She 
took  her  place  there,  determined  to  look  till  the  moment  when 
her  godfather  laid  his  head  on  the  block.  Now  while  the 
prisoners  were  allowed  a  brief  interval  with  their  confessor, 
the  spectators  were  pressing  into  court  until  the  crowd  became 
dense  around  the  black  scaffold,  and  the  torches  flxed  in  iron 
rings  against  the  pillars  threw  a  varying  startling  light  at  one 
moment  on  passionless  stone  carvings,  at  another  on  some  pale 
face  agitated  with  suppressed  rage  or  suppressed  grief  —  the 
face  of  one  among  the  many  near  relatives  of  the  condemned, 
who  were  presently  to  receive  their  dead  and  carry  them  home. 

Eomola’s  face  looked  like  a  marble  image  against  the  dark 


124 


ROMOLA. 


arch  as  she  stood  watching  for  the  moment  when  her  god¬ 
father  would  appear  at  the  foot  of  the  scaffold.  He  was  to 
suffer  first,  and  Battista  Eidolfi,  who  was  by  her  side,  had 
promised  to  take  her  away  through  a  door  behind  them  when 
she  would  have  seen  the  last  look  of  the  man  who  alone  in  all 
the  world  had  shared  her  pitying  love  for  her  father.  And 
still,  in  the  background  of  her  thought,  there  was  the  possi¬ 
bility  striving  to  be  a  hope,  that  some  rescue  might  yet  come, 
something  that  would  keep  that  scaffold  unstained  by  blood. 

For  a  long  while  there  was  constant  movement,  lights 
flickering,  heads  swaying  to  and  fro,  confused  voices  within 
the  court,  rushing  waves  of  sound  through  the  entrance  from 
without.  It  seemed  to  Eomola  as  if  she  were  in  the  midst  of 
a  storm-troubled  sea,  caring  nothing  about  the  storm,  caring 
only  to  hold  out  a  signal  till  the  eyes  that  looked  for  it  could 
seek  it  no  more. 

Suddenly  there  was  stillness,  and  the  very  tapers  seemed  to 
tremble  into  quiet.  The  executioner  was  ready  on  the  scaffold, 
and  Bernardo  del  Nero  was  seen  ascending  it  with  a  slow  firm 
step.  Romola  made  no  visible  movement,  uttered  not  even  a 
suppressed  sound :  she  stood  more  firmly,  caring  for  his  firm¬ 
ness.  She  saw  him  pause,  saw  the  white  head  kept  erect, 
while  he  said  in  a  voice  distinctly  audible  — 

“  It  is  but  a  short  space  of  life  that  my  fellow-citizens  have 
taken  from  me.” 

She  perceived  that  he  was  gazing  slowly  round  him  as  he 
spoke.  She  felt  that  his  eyes  were  resting  on  her,  and  that 
she  was  stretching  out  her  arms  towards  him.  Then  she  saw 
no  more  till  —  a  long  while  after,  as  it  seemed  —  a  voice  said. 
My  daughter,  all  is  peace  now.  I  can  conduct  you  to  your 
house.” 

She  uncovered  her  head  and  saw  her  godfather’s  confessor 
standing  by  her,  in  a  room  where  there  were  other  grave  men 
talking  in  subdued  tones. 

“  I  am  ready,”  she  said,  starting  up.  “  Let  us  lose  no  time.” 

She  thought  all  clinging  was  at  an  end  for  her :  all  her 
strength  now  should  be  given  to  escape  from  a  grasp  under 
vhich  she  shuddered. 


DRIFTING  AWAY. 


125 


CHAPTER  LXI. 

DRIFTING  AWAY. 

On  the  eighth  day  from  that  memorable  night  Romola  was 
standing  on  the  brink  of  the  Mediterranean,  watching  the 
gentle  summer  pulse  of  the  sea  just  above  what  was  then  the 
little  fishing  village  of  Viareggio. 

Again  she  had  fled  from  Florence,  and  this  time  no  arresting 
voice  had  called  her  back.  Again  she  wore  the  gray  religious 
dress  ;  and  this  time,  in  her  heart-sickness,  she  did  not  care 
that  it  was  a  disguise.  A  new  rebellion  had  risen  within  her, 
a  new  despair.  Why  should  she  care  about  wearing  one  badge 
more  than  another,  or  about  being  called  by  her  own  name  ? 
She  despaired  of  finding  any  consistent  duty  belonging  to  that 
name.  What  force  was  there  to  create  for  her  that  supremely 
hallowed  motive  which  men  call  duty,  but  which  can  have 
no  inward  constraining  existence  save  through  some  form  of 
believing  love  ? 

The  bonds  of  all  strong  affection  were  snapped.  In  her 
marriage,  the  highest  bond  of  all,  she  had  ceased  to  see  the 
mystic  union  which  is  its  own  guarantee  of  indissolubleness, 
had  ceased  even  to  see  the  obligation  of  a  voluntary  pledge  : 
had  she  not  proved  that  the  things  to  which  she  had  pledged 
herself  were  impossible  ?  The  impulse  to  set  herself  free  had 
risen  again  with  overmastering  force  ;  yet  the  freedom  could 
only  be  an  exchange  of  calamity.  There  is  no  compensation 
for  the  woman  who  feels  that  the  chief  relation  of  her  life  has 
been  no  more  than  a  mistake.  She  has  lost  her  crown.  The 
deepest  secret  of  human  blessedness  has  half  whispered  itself 
to  her,  and  then  forever  passed  her  by. 

And  now  Romola’s  best  support  under  that  supreme  woman’s 
sorrow  had  slipped  away  from  her.  The  vision  of  any  great 
purpose,  any  end  of  existence  which  could  ennoble  endurance 
and  exalt  the  common  deeds  of  a  dusty  life  with  divine  ardors, 


126 


ROMOLA. 


was  utterly  eclipsed  for  her  now  by  the  sense  of  a  confusion 
in  human  things  which  made  all  effort  a  mere  dragging  at 
tangled  threads ;  all  fellowship,  either  for  resistance  or  advo^ 
cacy,  mere  unfairness  and  exclusiveness.  What,  after  all,  was 
the  man  who  had  represented  for  her  the  highest  heroism :  the 
heroism  not  of  hard,  self-contained  endurance,  but  of  willing, 
self-offering  love  ?  What  was  the  cause  he  was  struggling 
for  ?  Romola  had  lost  her  trust  in  Savonarola,  had  lost  that 
fervor  of  admiration  which  had  made  her  unmindful  of  his 
aberrations,  and  attentive  only  to  the  grand  curve  of  his  orbit. 
And  now  that  her  keen  feeling  for  her  godfather  had  thrown 
her  into  antagonism  with  the  Frate,  she  saw  all  the  repulsive 
and  inconsistent  details  in  his  teaching  with  a  painful  lucidity 
which  exaggerated  their  proportions.  In  the  bitterness  of  her 
disappointment  she  said  that  his  striving  after  the  renovation 
of  the  Church  and  the  world  was  a  striving  after  a  mere  name 
which  told  no  more  than  the  title  of  a  book  :  a  name  that  had 
come  to  mean  practically  the  measures  that  would  strengthen 
his  own  position  in  Florence  ;  nay,  often  questionable  deeds 
and  words,  for  the  sake  of  saving  his  influence  from  suffering 
by  his  own  errors.  And  that  political  reform  which  had  once 
made  a  new  interest  in  her  life  seemed  now  to  reduce  itself  to 
narrow  devices  for  the  safety  of  Florence,  in  contemptible 
contradiction  with  the  alternating  professions  of  blind  trust  in 
the  Divine  care. 

It  was  inevitable  that  she  should  judge  the  Frate  unfairly 
on  a  question  of  individual  suffering,  at  which  she  looked  with 
the  eyes  of  personal  tenderness,  and  he  with  the  eyes  of  theoretic 
conviction.  In  that  declaration  of  his,  that  the  cause  of  his 
party  was  the  cause  of  God’s  kingdom,  she  heard  only  the 
ring  of  egoism.  Perhaps  such  words  have  rarely  been  uttered 
without  that  meaner  ring  in  them  ;  yet  they  are  the  implicit 
formula  of  all  energetic  belief.  And  if  such  energetic  belief, 
pursuing  a  grand  and  remote  end,  is  often  in  danger  of  becom¬ 
ing  a  demon-worship,  in  which  the  votary  lets  his  son  and 
daughter  pass  through  the  fire  with  a  readiness  that  hardly 
looks  like  sacrifice ;  tender  fellow-feeling  for  the  nearest  has 
its  danger  too,  and  is  apt  to  be  timid  and  sceptical  towards  the 


DRIFTING  AWAY.  127 

larger  aims  without  which  life  cannot  rise  into  religion.  In 
this  way  poor  Romola  was  being  blinded  by  her  tears. 

No  one  who  has  ever  known  what  it  is  thus  to  lose  faith  in 
a  fellow-man  whom  he  has  profoundly  loved  and  reverenced, 
will  lightly  say  that  the  shock  can  leave  the  faith  in  the  In¬ 
visible  Goodness  unshaken.  With  the  sinking  of  high  human 
trust,  the  dignity  of  life  sinks  too  ;  we  cease  to  believe  in  our 
own  better  self,  since  that  also  is  part  of  the  common  nature 
which  is  degraded  in  our  thought ;  and  all  the  finer  impulses 
of  the  soul  are  dulled.  Romola  felt  even  the  springs  of  her 
once  active  pity  drying  up,  and  leaving  her  to  barren  egoistic 
complaining.  Had  not  she  had  her  sorrows  too  ?  And  few  had 
cared  for  her,  while  she  had  cared  for  many.  She  had  done 
enough ;  she  had  striven  after  the  impossible,  and  was  weary 
of  this  stifling  crowded  life.  She  longed  for  that  repose  in 
mere  sensation  which  she  had  sometimes  dreamed  of  in  the 
sultry  afternoons  of  her  early  girlhood,  when  she  had  fancied 
herself  floating  naiad-like  in  the  waters. 

The  clear  waves  seemed  to  invite  her :  she  wished  she  could 
lie  down  to  sleep  on  them  and  pass  from  sleep  into  death. 
But  Bomola  could  not  directly  seek  death  ;  the  fulness  of 
young  life  in  her  forbade  that.  She  could  only  wish  that 
death  would  come. 

At  the  spot  where  she  had  paused  there  was  a  deep  bend  in 
the  shore,  and  a  small  boat  with  a  sail  was  moored  there.  In 
her  longing  to  glide  over  the  waters  that  were  getting  golden 
with  the  level  sun-rays,  she  thought  of  a  story  which  had  been 
one  of  the  things  she  had  loved  to  dwell  on  in  Boccaccio,  when 
her  father  fell  asleep  and  she  glided  from  her  stool  to  sit  on 
the  floor  and  read  the  Decamerone.”  It  was  the  story  of 
that  fair  Gostanza  who  in  her  love-lornness  desired  to  live  no 
longer,  but  not  having  the  courage  to  attack  her  young  life, 
had  put  herself  into  a  boat  and  pushed  off  to  sea ;  then,  lying 
down  in  the  boat,  had  wrapped  her  mantle  round  her  head, 
hoping  to  be  wrecked,  so  that  her  fear  would  be  helpless  to 
flee  from  death.  The  memory  had  remained  a  mere  thought 
in  Romola’s  mind,  without  budding  into  any  distinct  wish ; 
but  now,  as  she  paused  again  in  her  walking  to  and  fro,  she 


128 


ROMOLA. 


saw  gliding  black  against  the  red  gold  another  boat  with  one 
man  in  it,  making  towards  the  bend  where  the  first  and  smaller 
boat  was  moored.  Walking  on  again,  she  at  length  saw  the 
man  land,  pull  his  boat  ashore  and  begin  to  unlade  something 
from  it.  He  was  perhaps  the  owner  of  the  smaller  boat  also : 
he  would  be  going  away  soon,  and  her  opportunity  would  be 
gone  with  him  —  her  opportunity  of  buying  that  smaller  boat. 
She  had  not  yet  admitted  to  herself  that  she  meant  to  use  it, 
but  she  felt  a  sudden  eagerness  to  secure  the  possibility  of 
using  it,  which  disclosed  the  half-unconscious  growth  of  a 
thought  into  a  desire. 

“  Is  that  little  boat  yours  also  ?  ”  she  said  to  the  fisherman, 
who  had  looked  up,  a  little  startled  by  the  tall  gray  figure,  and 
had  made  a  reverence  to  this  holy  Sister  wandering  thus  mys¬ 
teriously  in  the  evening  solitude. 

It  was  his  boat ;  an  old  one,  hardly  seaworthy,  yet  worth 
repairing  to  any  man  who  would  buy  it.  By  the  blessing  of 
San  Antonio,  whose  chapel  was  in  the  village  yonder,  his  fish¬ 
ing  had  prospered,  and  he  had  now  a  better  boat,  which  had 
once  been  Gianni’s  who  died.  But  he  had  not  yet  sold  the  old 
one.  Roinola  asked  him  how  much  it  was  worth,  and  then, 
while  he  was  busy,  thrust  the  price  into  a  little  satchel  lying 
on  the  ground  and  containing  the  remnant  of  his  dinner.  After 
that,  she  watched  him  furling  his  sail  and  asked  him  how  he 
should  set  it  if  he  wanted  to  go  out  to  sea,  and  then  pacing  up 
and  down  again,  waited  to  see  him  depart. 

The  imagination  of  herself  gliding  away  in  that  boat  on  the 
darkening  waters  was  growing  more  and  more  into  a  longing, 
as  the  thought  of  a  cool  brook  in  sultriness  becomes  a  painful 
thirst.  To  be  freed  from  the  burden  of  choice  when  all  motive 
was  bruised,  to  commit  herself,  sleeping,  to  destiny  which 
would  either  bring  death  or  else  new  necessities  that  might 
rouse  a  new  life  in  her  !  —  it  was  a  thought  that  beckoned  her 
the  more  because  the  soft  evening  air  made  her  long  to  rest  in 
the  still  solitude,  instead  of  going  back  to  the  noise  and  heat 
of  the  village. 

At  last  the  slow  fisherman  had  gathered  up  all  his  movables 
and  was  walking  away,  ^on  the  gold  was  shrinking  and  get 


DRIFTING  AWAY. 


129 


ting  duskier  in  sea  and  sky,  and  there  was  no  living  thing  in 
iight,  no  sound  but  the  lulling  monotony  of  the  lapping  waves. 
In  this  sea  there  was  no  tide  that  would  help  to  carry  her 
away  if  she  waited  for  its  ebb ;  but  Romola  thought  the  breeze 
from  the  land  was  rising  a  little.  She  got  into  the  boat,  un¬ 
furled  the  sail,  and  fastened  it  as  she  had  learned  in  that  first 
brief  lesson.  She  saw  that  it  caught  the  light  breeze,  and  this 
was  all  she  cared  for.  Then  she  loosed  the  boat  from  its  moor¬ 
ings,  and  tried  to  urge  it  with  an  oar,  till  she  was  far  out  from 
the  land,  till  the  sea  was  dark  even  to  the  west,  and  the  stars 
were  disclosing  themselves  like  a  palpitating  life  over  the  wide 
heavens.  Resting  at  last,  she  threw  back  her  cowl,  and,  taking 
off  the  kerchief  underneath,  which  confined  her  hair,  she 
doubled  them  both  under  her  head  for  a  pillow  on  one  of  the 
boat’s  ribs.  The  fair  head  was  still  very  young  and  could  bear 
a  hard  pillow. 

And  so  she  lay,  with  the  soft  night  air  breathing  on  her 
while  she  glided  on  the  water  and  watched  the  deepening  quiet 
of  the  sky.  She  was  alone  now :  she  had  freed  herself  from 
all  claims,  she  had  freed  herself  even  from  that  burden  of 
choice  which  presses  with  heavier  and  heavier  weight  when 
claims  have  loosed  their  guiding  hold. 

Had  she  found  anything  like  the  dream  of  her  girlhood  ? 
No.  Memories  hung  upon  her  like  the  weight  of  broken 
wings  that  could  never  be  lifted  —  memories  of  human  sym¬ 
pathy  which  even  in  its  pains  leaves  a  thirst  that  the  Great 
Mother  has  no  milk  to  still.  Romola  felt  orphaned  in  those 
wide  spaces  of  sea  and  sky.  She  read  no  message  of  love  for 
her  iu  that  far-off  symbolic  writing  of  the  heavens,  and  with  a 
great  sob  she  wished  that  she  might  be  gliding  into  death. 

She  drew  the  cowl  over  her  head  again  and  covered  her 
face,  choosing  darkness  rather  than  the  light  of  the  stars, 
which  seemed  to  her  like  the  hard  light  of  eyes  that  looked 
at  hei  without  seeing  her.  Presently  she  felt  that  she  was 
in  the  grave,  but  not  resting  there :  she  was  touching  the 
hands  of  the  beloved  dead  beside  her,  and  trying  to  wake 
them. 


VOL. 


130 


BOMOUL 


CHAPTER  LXII, 

THE  BENEDICTIOK. 

About  ten  o’clock  on  the  morning  of  the  27th  of  February 
the  currents  of  passengers  along  the  Florentine  streets  set 
decidedly  towards  San  Marco.  It  was  the  last  morning  of 
the  Carnival,  and  every  one  knew  there  was  a  second  Bon¬ 
fire  of  Vanities  being  prepared  in  front  of  the  Old  Palace; 
but  at  this  hour  it  was  evident  that  the  centre  of  popular 
interest  lay  elsewhere. 

The  Piazza  di  San  Marco  was  filled  by  a  multitude  who 
showed  no  other  movement  than  that  which  proceeded  from 
the  pressure  of  new-comers  trying  to  force  their  way  forward 
from  all  the  openings  :  but  the  front  ranks  were  already  close- 
serried  and  resisted  the  pressure.  Those  ranks  were  ranged 
around  a  semicircular  barrier  in  front  of  the  church,  and  within 
this  barrier  were  already  assembling  the  Dominican  Brethren 
of  San  Marco. 

But  the  temporary  wooden  pulpit  erected  over  the  church- 
door  was  still  empty.  It  was  presently  to  be  entered  by  the 
man  whom  the  Pope’s  command  had  banished  from  the  pulpit 
of  the  Duomo,  whom  the  other  ecclesiastics  of  Florence  had 
been  forbidden  to  consort  with,  whom  the  citizens  had  been 
forbidden  to  hear  on  pain  of  excommunication.  This  man  had 
said,  “A  wicked,  unbelieving  Pope  who  has  gained  the  pon¬ 
tifical  chair  by  bribery  is  not  Christ’s  Vicar.  His  curses  are 
broken  swords :  he  grasps  a  hilt  without  a  blade.  His  com¬ 
mands  are  contrary  to  the  Christian  life :  it  is  lawful  to  dis¬ 
obey  them — nay,  it  is  not  lawful  to  obey  themP  And  the 
people  still  flocked  to  hear  him  as  he  preached  in  his  own 
church  of  San  Marco,  though  the  Pope  was  hanging  terrible 
threats  over  Florence  if  it  did  not  renounce  the  pestilential 
schismatic  and  send  him  to  Rome  to  be  “  converted  ”  —  still, 
as  on  this  very  morning,  accepted  the  Communion  from  his 


THE  BENEDICTION. 


131 


excommunicated  hands.  For  how  if  this  Frate  had  really 
more  command  over  the  Divine  lightnings  than  that  official 
successor  of  Saint  Peter  ?  It  was  a  momentous  question, 
which  for  the  mass  of  citizens  could  never  be  decided  by  the 
Frate’s  ultimate  test,  namely,  what  was  and  what  was  not 
accordant  with  the  highest  spiritual  law.  No:  in  such  a  case 
as  this,  if  God  had  chosen  the  Frate  as  his  prophet  to  rebuke 
the  High  Priest  who  carried  the  mystic  raiment  unworthily, 
he  would  attest  his  choice  by  some  unmistakable  sign.  As 
long  as  the  belief  in  the  Prophet  carried  no  threat  of  outward 
calamity,  but  rather  the  confident  hope  of  exceptional  safety, 
no  sign  was  needed  :  his  preaching  was  a  music  to  which  the 
people  felt  themselves  marching  along  the  way  they  wished 
to  go ;  but  now  that  belief  meant  an  immediate  blow  to  their 
commerce,  the  shaking  of  their  position  among  the  Italian 
States,  and  an  interdict  on  their  city,  there  inevitably  came 
the  question,  “  What  miracle  showest  thou  ?  ”  Slowly  at 
first,  then  faster  and  faster,  that  fatal  demand  had  been  swell¬ 
ing  in  Savonarola’s  ear,  provoking  a  response,  outwardly  in 
the  declaration  that  at  the  fitting  time  the  miracle  would 
come  ;  inwardly  in  the  faith  —  not  unwavering,  for  what  faith 
is  so  ?  —  that  if  the  need  for  miracle  became  urgent,  the  work 
he  had  before  him  was  too  great  for  the  Divine  power  to  leave 
it  halting.  His  faith  wavered,  but  not  his  speech :  it  is  the 
lot  of  every  man  who  has  to  speak  for  the  satisfaction  of  the 
crowd,  that  he  must  often  speak  in  virtue  of  yesterday’s  faith, 
hoping  it  will  come  back  to-morrow. 

It  was  in  preparation  for  a  scene  which  was  really  a 
response  to  the  popular  impatience  for  some  supernatural 
guarantee  of  the  Prophet’s  mission,  that  the  wooden  pulpit 
had  been  erected  above  the  church-door.  But  while  the  ordi¬ 
nary  Frati  in  black  mantles  were  entering  and  arranging  them¬ 
selves,  the  faces  of  the  multitude  were  not  yet  eagerly  directed 
towards  the  pulpit :  it  was  felt  that  Savonarola  would  not 
appear  just  yet,  and  there  was  some  interest  in  singling  out 
the  various  monks,  some  of  them  belonging  to  high  Florentine 
families,  many  of  them  having  fathers,  brothers,  or  cousins 
among  the  artisans  and  shopkeepers  who  made  the  majority 


132 


ROMOLA. 


of  the  crowd.  It  was  not  till  the  tale  of  monks  was  complete, 
not  till  they  had  fluttered  their  books  and  had  begun  to  chant, 
that  people  said  to  each  other,  Fra  Girolamo  must  be  coming 
now.” 

That  expectation  rather  than  any  spell  from  the  accustomed 
wail  of  psalmody  was  what  made  silence  and  expectation  seem 
to  spread  like  a  paling  solemn  light  over  the  multitude  of  up¬ 
turned  faces,  all  now  directed  towards  the  empty  pulpit. 

The  next  instant  the  pulpit  was  no  longer  empty.  A  figure 
covered  from  head  to  foot  in  black  cowl  and  mantle  had  en¬ 
tered  it,  and  was  kneeling  with  bent  head  and  with  face  turned 
away.  It  seemed  a  weary  time  to  the  eager  people  while  the 
black  figure  knelt  and  the  monks  chanted.  But  the  stillness 
was  not  broken,  for  the  Frate’s  audiences  with  Heaven  were 
yet  charged  with  electric  awe  for  that  mixed  multitude,  so 
that  those  who  had  already  the  will  to  stone  him  felt  their 
arms  unnerved. 

At  last  there  was  a  vibration  among  the  multitude,  each 
seeming  to  give  his  neighbor  a  momentary  aspen-like  touch, 
as  when  men  who  have  been  watching  for  something  in  the 
heavens  see  the  expected  presence  silently  disclosing  itself. 
The  Frate  had  risen,  turned  towards  the  people,  and  partly 
pushed  back  his  cowl.  The  monotonous  wail  of  psalmody  had 
ceased,  and  to  those  who  stood  near  the  pulpit,  it  was  as  if  the 
sounds  which  had  just  been  filling  their  ears  had  suddenly 
merged  themselves  in  the  force  of  Savonarola’s  flashing  glance, 
as  he  looked  round  him  in  the  silence.  Then  he  stretched  out 
his  hands,  which,  in  their  exquisite  delicacy,  seemed  trans¬ 
figured  from  an  animal  organ  for  grasping  into  vehicles  of  sen¬ 
sibility  too  acute  to  need  any  gross  contact :  hands  that  came 
like  an  appealing  speech  from  that  part  of  his  soul  which  was 
masked  by  his  strong  passionate  face,  written  on  now  with 
deeper  lines  about  the  mouth  and  brow  than  are  made  by  forty- 
four  years  of  ordinary  life. 

At  the  first  stretching  out  of  the  hands  some  of  the  crowd 
in  the  front  ranks  fell  on  their  knees,  and  here  and  there  a  de¬ 
vout  disciple  farther  off ;  but  the  great  majority  stood  firm, 
some  resisting  the  impulse  to  kneel  before  this  excommuni- 


THE  BENEDICTION. 


133 


cated  man  (might  not  a  great  judgment  fall  upon  him  even  in 
this  act  of  blessing?) — others  jarred  with  scorn  and  hatred 
of  the  ambitious  deceiver  who  was  getting  up  this  new  comedy, 
before  which,  nevertheless,  they  felt  themselves  impotent,  as 
before  the  triumph  of  a  fashion. 

But  then  came  the  voice,  clear  and  low  at  first,  uttering  the 
words  of  absolution  —  “  Misereatur  vestri  ”  —  and  more  fell  on 
their  knees  :  and  as  it  rose  higher  and  yet  clearer,  the  erect 
heads  became  fewer  and  fewer,  till,  at  the  words  Benedicat 
VOS  ommpotens  Beus,”  it  rose  to  a  masculine  cry,  as  if  protest¬ 
ing  its  power  to  bless  under  the  clutch  of  a  demon  that  wanted 
to  stifle  it :  it  rang  like  a  trumpet  to  the  extremities  of  the 
piazza,  and  under  it  every  head  was  bowed. 

After  the  utterance  of  that  blessing,  Savonarola  himself  fell 
on  his  knees  and  hid  his  face  in  temporary  exhaustion.  Those 
great  jets  of  emotion  were  a  necessary  part  of  his  life ;  he 
himself  had  said  to  the  people  long  ago,  “  Without  preaching 
I  cannot  live.”  But  it  was  a  life  that  shattered  him. 

In  a  few  minutes  more,  some  had  risen  to  their  feet,  but  a 
larger  number  remained  kneeling,  and  all  faces  were  intently 
watching  him.  He  had  taken  into  his  hands  a  crystal  vessel, 
containing  the  consecrated  Host,  and  was  about  to  address  the 
people. 

“You  remember,  my  children,  three  days  ago  I  besought 
you,  when  I  should  hold  this  Sacrament  in  my  hand  in  the 
face  of  you  all,  to  pray  fervently  to  the  Most  High  that  if  this 
work  of  mine  does  not  come  from  Him,  He  will  send  a  fire  and 
consume  me,  that  I  may  vanish  into  the  eternal  darkness  away 
from  His  light  which  I  have  hidden  with  my  falsity.  Again  I 
beseech  you  to  make  that  prayer,  and  to  make  it  now.” 

It  was  a  breathless  moment :  perhaps  no  man  really  prayed, 
if  some  in  a  spirit  of  devout  obedience  made  the  effort  to  pray. 
Every  consciousness  was  chiefly  possessed  by  the  sense  that 
Savonarola  was  praying,  in  a  voice  not  loud,  but  distinctly 
audible  in  the  wide  stillness. 

“  Lord,  if  I  have  not  wrought  in  sincerity  of  soul,  if  my 
word  cometh  not  from  Thee,  strike  me  in  this  moment  with 
Thy  thunder,  and  let  the  fires  of  Thy  wrath  enclose  me.” 


134 


ROMOLA. 


He  ceased  to  speak,  and  stood  motionless,  with  the  oonse> 
crated  Mystery  in  his  hand,  with  eyes  uplifted  and  a  quivering 
excitement  in  his  whole  aspect.  Every  one  else  was  motion' 
less  and  silent  too,  while  the  sunlight,  which  for  the  last 
quarter  of  an  hour  had  here  and  there  been  piercing  the  gray¬ 
ness,  made  fitful  streaks  across  the  convent  wall,  causing  some 
awe-stricken  spectators  to  start  timidly.  But  soon  there  was 
a  wider  parting,  and  with  a  gentle  quickness,  like  a  smile, 
a  stream  of  brightness  poured  itself  on  the  crystal  vase, 
and  then  spread  itself  over  Savonarola’s  face  with  mild 
glorification. 

An  instantaneous  shout  rang  through  the  piazza,  “Behold 
the  answer !  ” 

The  warm  radiance  thrilled  through  Savonarola’s  frame, 
and  so  did  the  shout.  It  was  his  last  moment  of  untroubled 
triumph,  and  in  its  rapturous  confidence  he  felt  carried  to  a 
grander  scene  yet  to  come,  before  an  audience  that  would  rep¬ 
resent  all  Christendom,  in  whose  presence  he  should  again  be 
sealed  as  the  messenger  of  the  supreme  righteousness,  and 
feel  himself  full  charged  with  Divine  strength.  It  was  but  a 
moment  that  expanded  itself  in  that  prevision.  While  the 
shout  was  still  ringing  in  his  ears  he  turned  away  within  the 
church,  feeling  the  strain  too  great  for  him  to  bear  it  longer. 

But  when  the  Erate  had  disappeared,  and  the  sunlight 
seemed  no  longer  to  have  anything  special  in  its  illumination, 
but  was  spreading  itself  impartially  over  all  things  clean  and 
unclean,  there  began,  along  with  the  general  movement  of  the 
crowd,  a  confusion  of  voices  in  which  certain  strong  discords 
and  varying  scales  of  laughter  made  it  evident  that,  in  the 
previous  silence  and  universal  kneeling,  hostility  and  scorn 
had  only  submitted  unwillingly  to  a  momentary  spell. 

“  It  seems  to  me  the  plaudits  are  giving  way  to  criticism,” 
said  Tito,  who  had  been  watching  the  scene  attentively  from 
an  upper  loggia  in  one  of  the  houses  opposite  the  church. 
“  Nevertheless  it  was  a  striking  moment,  eh,  Messer  Pietro  ? 
Fra  Girolamo  is  a  man  to  make  one  understand  that  there  was 
a  time  when  the  monk’s  frock  was  a  symbol  of  power  over 
men’s  minds  rather  than  over  the  keys  of  women’s  cupboards.” 


RIPENING  SCHEMES. 


135 


Assuredly,”  said  Pietro  Cennini.  ^^And  until  I  have  seen 
proof  that  Era  Girolamo  has  much  less  faith  in  God’s  judg¬ 
ments  than  the  common  run  of  men,  instead  of  having  consid¬ 
erably  more,  I  shall  not  believe  that  he  would  brave  Heaven 
in  this  way  if  his  soul  were  laden  with  a  conscious  lie.” 


CHAPTER  LXIII. 

RIPENING  SCHEMES. 

A  MONTH  after  that  Carnival,  one  morning  near  the  end  of 
March,  Tito  descended  the  marble  steps  of  the  Old  Palace, 
bound  on  a  pregnant  errand  to  San  Marco.  For  some  reason, 
he  did  not  choose  to  take  the  direct  road,  which  was  but  a 
slightly  bent  line  from  the  Old  Palace ;  he  chose  rather  to 
make  a  circuit  by  the  Piazza  di  Santa  Croce,  where  the  people 
would  be  pouring  out  of  the  church  after  the  early  sermon. 

It  was  in  the  grand  church  of  Santa  Croce  that  the  daily 
Lenten  sermon  had  of  late  had  the  largest  audience.  For 
Savonarola’s  voice  had  ceased  to  be  heard  even  in  his  own 
church  of  San  Marco,  a  hostile  Signoria  having  imposed  silence 
on  him  in  obedience  to  a  new  letter  from  the  Pope,  threatening 
the  city  with  an  immediate  interdict  if  this  “  wretched  worm  ” 
and  monstrous  idol  ”  were  not  forbidden  to  preach,  and  sent 
to  demand  pardon  at  Rome.  And  next  to  hearing  Fra  Girol¬ 
amo  himself,  the  most  exciting  Lenten  occupation  was  to  hear 
him  argued  against  and  vilified.  This  excitement  was  to  be 
had  in  Santa  Croce,  where  the  Franciscan  appointed  to  preach 
the  Quaresimal  sermons  had  offered  to  clench  his  arguments 
by  walking  through  the  fire  with  Fra  Girolamo.  Had  not  that 
schismatical  Dominican  said,  that  his  prophetic  doctrine  would 
be  proved  by  a  miracle  at  the  fitting  time  ?  Here,  then,  was 
the  fitting  time.  Let  Savonarola  walk  through  the  fire,  and  if 
he  came  out  unhurt,  the  Divine  origin  of  his  doctrine  would  be 
demonstrated ;  but  if  the  fire  consumed  him,  his  falsity  would 


186 


ROMOLA. 


be  manifest ;  and  that  he  might  have  no  excuse  for  evading 
the  test,  the  Franciscan  declared  himself  willing  to  be  a  victim 
to  this  high  logic,  and  to  be  burned  for  the  sake  of  securing 
the  necessary  minor  premiss. 

Savonarola,  according  to  his  habit,  had  taken  no  notice 
of  these  pulpit  attacks.  But  it  happened  that  the  zealous 
preacher  of  Santa  Croce  was  no  other  than  the  Fra  Francesco 
di  Puglia,  who  at  Prato  the  year  before  had  been  engaged  in  a 
like  challenge  with  Savonarola’s  fervent  follower  Fra  Domen¬ 
ico,  but  had  been  called  home  by  his  superiors  while  the  heat 
was  simply  oratorical.  Honest  Fra  Domenico,  then,  who  was 
preaching  Lenten  sermons  to  the  women  in  the  Via  del  Coco- 
mero,  no  sooner  heard  of  this  new  challenge,  than  he  took  up 
the  gauntlet  for  his  master,  and  declared  himself  ready  to  walk 
through  the  fire  with  Fra  Francesco.  Already  the  people  were 
beginning  to  take  a  strong  interest  in  what  seemed  to  them  a 
short  and  easy  method  of  argument  (for  those  who  were  to  be 
convinced),  when  Savonarola,  keenly  alive  to  the  dangers  that 
lay  in  the  mere  discussion  of  the  case,  commanded  Fra  Domen¬ 
ico  to  withdraw  his  acceptance  of  the  challenge  and  secede 
from  the  affair.  The  Franciscan  declared  himself  content : 
he  had  not  directed  his  challenge  to  any  subaltern,  but  to  Fra 
Girolamo  himself. 

After  that,  the  popular  interest  in  the  Lenten  sermons  had 
flagged  a  little.  But  this  morning,  when  Tito  entered  the 
Piazza  di  Santa  Croce,  he  found,  as  he  expected,  that  the 
people  were  pouring  from  the  church  in  large  numbers.  In¬ 
stead  of  dispersing,  many  of  them  concentrated  themselves 
towards  a  particular  spot  near  the  entrance  of  the  Franciscan 
monastery,  and  Tito  took  the  same  direction,  threading  the 
crowd  with  a  careless  and  leisurely  air,  but  keeping  careful 
watch  on  that  monastic  entrance,  as  if  he  expected  some  object 
of  interest  to  issue  from  it. 

It  was  no  such  expectation  that  occupied  the  crowd.  The 
object  they  were  caring  about  was  already  visible  to  them  in 
the  shape  of  a  large  placard,  affixed  by  order  of  the  Signoria, 
and  covered  with  very  legible  official  handwriting.  But  curi¬ 
osity  was  somewhat  balked  by  the  fact  that  the  manuscript 


RIPENING  SCHEMES. 


137 


was  chiefly  in  Latin,  and  though  nearly  every  man  knew 
beforehand  approximately  what  the  placard  contained,  he  had 
an  appetite  for  more  exact  knowledge,  which  gave  him  an  irri¬ 
tating  sense  of  his  neighbor’s  ignorance  in  not  being  able  to 
interpret  the  learned  tongue.  For  that  aural  acquaintance 
with  Latin  phrases  which  the  unlearned  might  pick  up  from 
pulpit  quotations  constantly  interpreted  by  the  preacher  could 
help  them  little  when  they  saw  written  Latin ;  the  spelling 
even  of  the  modern  language  being  in  an  unorganized  and 
scrambling  condition  for  the  mass  of  people  who  could  read 
and  write,i  while  the  majority  of  those  assembled  nearest  to 
the  placard  were  not  in  the  dangerous  predicament  of  posses¬ 
sing  that  little  knowledge. 

“It’s  the  Frate’s  doctrines  that  he’s  to  prove  by  being 
burned,”  said  that  large  public  character  Goro,  who  happened 
to  be  among  the  foremost  gazers.  “  The  Signoria  has  taken  it 
in  hand,  and  the  writing  is  to  let  us  know.  It’s  what  the 
Padre  has  been  telling  us  about  in  his  sermon.” 

“Nay,  Goro,”  said  a  sleek  shopkeeper,  compassionately, 
“  thou  hast  got  thy  legs  into  twisted  hose  there.  The  Frate 
has  to  prove  his  doctrines  by  not  being  burned  :  he  is  to  walk 
through  the  fire,  and  come  out  on  the  other  side  sound  and 
whole.” 

“Yes,  yes,”  said  a  young  sculptor,  who  wore  his  white* 
streaked  cap  and  tunic  with  a  jaunty  air.  “But  Fra  Girolamo 
objects  to  walking  through  the  fire.  Being  sound  and  whole 
already,  he  sees  no  reason  why  he  should  walk  through  the 
fire  to  come  out  in  just  the  same  condition.  He  leaves  such 
odds  and  ends  of  work  to  Fra  Domenico.” 

“Then  I  say  he  flinches  like  a  coward,”  said  Goro,  in  a 
wheezy  treble.  “  Suffocation !  that  was  what  he  did  at  the 
Carnival.  He  had  us  all  in  the  piazza  to  see  the  lightning 
strike  him,  and  nothing  came  of  it.” 

“  Stop  that  bleating,”  said  a  tall  shoemaker,  who  had  stepped 
in  to  hear  part  of  the  sermon,  with  bunches  of  slippers  hang- 

^  The  old  diarists  throw  in  their  consonants  with  a  regard  rather  to  quan^ 
tity  tiian  position,  well  typified  by  the  Ragnolo  Braghiello  (Agnolo  Gabrielloj 
of  Boccaccio’s  Feroudo. 


138 


ROMOLA. 


ing  over  his  shoulders.  “  It  seems  to  me,  friend,  that  you  are 
about  as  wise  as  a  calf  with  water  on  its  brain.  The  Frate 
will  flinch  from  nothing :  he  ’ll  say  nothing  beforehand,  per¬ 
haps,  but  when  the  moment  comes  he’ll  walk  through  the 
fire  without  asking  any  gray -frock  to  keep  him  company.  But 
I  would  give  a  shoestring  to  know  what  this  Latin  all  is.” 

“There’s  so  much  of  it,”  said  the  shopkeeper,  “else  I’m 
pretty  good  at  guessing.  Is  there  no  scholar  to  be  seen  ?  ” 
he  added,  with  a  slight  expression  of  disgust. 

There  was  a  general  turning  of  heads,  which  caused  the 
talkers  to  descry  Tito  approaching  in  their  rear. 

“  Here  is  one,”  said  the  young  sculptor,  smiling  and  raising 
his  cap. 

“  It  is  the  secretary  of  the  Ten  :  he  is  going  to  the  convent, 
doubtless ;  make  way  for  him,”  said  the  shopkeeper,  also  doff¬ 
ing,  though  that  mark  of  respect  was  rarely  shown  by  Floren¬ 
tines  except  to  the  highest  officials.  The  exceptional  reverence 
was  really  exacted  by  the  splendor  and  grace  of  Tito’s  appear¬ 
ance,  which  made  his  black  mantle,  with  its  gold  fibula,  look 
like  a  regal  robe,  and  his  ordinary  black  velvet  cap  like  an 
entirely  exceptional  head-dress.  The  hardening  of  his  cheeks 
and  mouth,  which  was  the  chief  change  in  his  face  since  he 
came  to  Florence,  seemed  to  a  superficial  glance  only  to  give 
his  beauty  a  more  masculine  character.  He  raised  his  own 
cap  immediately  and  said  — 

“Thanks,  my  friend,  I  merely  wished,  as  you  did,  to  see 
what  is  at  the  foot  of  this  placard  —  ah,  it  is  as  I  expected. 
I  had  been  informed  that  the  government  permits  any  one 
who  will,  to  subscribe  his  name  as  a  candidate  to  enter  the 
fire  —  which  is  an  act  of  liberality  worthy  of  the  magnificent 
Signoria  —  reserving  of  course  the  right  to  make  a  selection. 
And  doubtless  many  believers  will  be  eager  to  subscribe  their 
names.  For  what  is  it  to  enter  the  fire,  to  one  whose  faith  is 
firm  ?  A  man  is  afraid  of  the  fire,  because  he  believes  it  will 
burn  him  ;  but  if  he  believes  the  contrary  ?  ”  — here  Tito  lifted 
his  shoulders  and  made  an  oratorical  pause  —  “for  which  rea^* 
son  I  have  never  been  one  to  disbelieve  the  Frate,  when  ha 
has  said  that  he  would  enter  the  fire  to  prove  his  doctrine. 


RIPENING  SCHEMES. 


139 


For  in  his  place,  if  you  believed  the  fire  would  not  burn  you, 
which  of  you,  my  friends,  would  not  enter  it  as  readily  as  you 
would  walk  along  the  dry  bed  of  the  Mugnone  ?  ” 

As  Tito  looked  round  him  during  this  appeal,  there  was  a 
change  in  some  of  his  audience  very  much  like  the  change  in 
an  eager  dog  when  he  is  invited  to  smell  something  pungent. 
Since  the  question  of  burning  was  becoming  practical,  it  was 
not  every  one  who  would  rashly  commit  himself  to  any  gen¬ 
eral  view  of  the  relation  between  faith  and  fire.  The  scene 
might  have  been  too  much  for  a  gravity  less  under  command 
than  Tito’s. 

“Then,  Messer  Segretario,”  said  the  young  sculptor,  “  it  seems 
to  me  Fra  Francesco  is  the  greater  hero,  for  he  offers  to  enter 
the  fire  for  the  truth,  though  he  is  sure  the  fire  will  burn  him.” 

“  I  do  not  deny  it,”  said  Tito,  blandly.  “  But  if  it  turns 
out  that  Fra  Francesco  is  mistaken,  he  will  have  been  burned 
for  the  wrong  side,  and  the  Church  has  never  reckoned  such 
victims  to  be  martyrs.  We  must  suspend  our  judgment  until 
the  trial  has  really  taken  place.” 

“  It  is  true,  Messer  Segretario,”  said  the  shopkeeper,  with 
subdued  impatience.  “  But  will  you  favor  us  by  interpreting 
the  Latin  ?  ” 

“  Assuredly,”  said  Tito.  “  It  does  but  express  the  conclu¬ 
sions  or  doctrines  which  the  Frate  specially  teaches,  and  which 
the  trial  by  fire  is  to  pro.ve  true  or  false.  They  are  doubtless 
familiar  to  you.  First,  that  Florence  —  ” 

“  Let  us  have  the  Latin  bit  by  bit,  and  then  tell  us  what  it 
means,”  said  the  shoemaker,  who  had  been  a  frequent  hearer 
of  Fra  Girolamo. 

“  Willingly,”  said  Tito,  smiling.  “  You  will  then  judge  if  I 
give  you  the  right  meaning.” 

“Yes,  yes  ;  that’s  fair,”  said  Goro. 

“  JScclesia  Dei  indiget  renovations ;  that  is,  the  Church  of 
God  needs  purifying  or  regenerating.” 

“  It  is  true,”  said  several  voices  at  once. 

“  That  means,  the  priests  ought  to  lead  better  lives  ;  there 
needs  no  miracle  to  prove  that.  That ’s  what  the  Frate  has 
always  been  saying,”  said  the  shoemaker. 


140 


ROMOLA. 


“Flagellabitur,’^  Tito  went  on.  “  That  is,  it  will  be  scourged 
Renovabitur :  it  will  be  purified.  Florentia  quoque  -post  flagel- 
lam  renovabitur  et  jorosperabitur :  Tlorence  also,  after  the 
scourging,  shall  be  purified  and  shall  prosper.” 

“That  means  we  are  to  get  Pisa  again,”  said  the  shop¬ 
keeper. 

“  And  get  the  wool  from  England  as  we  used  to  do,  I  should 
hope,”  said  an  elderly  man,  in  an  old-fashioned  berretta,  who 
had  been  silent  till  now.  “  There ’s  been  scourging  enough 
with  the  sinking  of  the  trade.” 

At  this  moment,  a  tall  personage,  surmounted  by  a  red 
feather,  issued  from  the  door  of  the  convent,  and  exchanged 
an  indifferent  glance  with  Tito  ;  who,  tossing  his  becchettc. 
carelessly  over  his  left  shoulder,  turned  to  his  reading  again, 
while  the  bystanders,  with  more  timidity  than  respect,  shrank 
to  make  a  passage  for  Messer  Dolfo  Spini, 

“  Infideles  convertentur  ad  Christum^’  Tito  went  on.  “  Tha^ 
is,  the  infidels  shall  be  converted  to  Christ.” 

“  Those  are  the  Turks  and  the  Moors.  Well,  I ’ve  nothing 
to  say  against  that,”  said  the  shopkeeper,  dispassionately. 

“  Hoec  autem  omnia  erunt  temporibus  nostris :  and  all  thest' 
things  shall  happen  in  our  times.” 

“  Why,  what  use  would  they  be  else  ?  ”  said  Goro. 

“  Fxcommunicatio  nuper  lata  contra  Reverendum  Patrem  noA- 
trum  Fratrem  Hieronymum  nulla  est :  the  excommunication 
lately  pronounced  against  our  reverend  father.  Fra  Girolamo, 
is  null.  Non  observantes  earn  non  peccant :  those  who  disre¬ 
gard  it  are  not  committing  a  sin.” 

“  I  shall  know  better  what  to  say  to  that  when  we  have  had 
the  Trial  by  Fire,”  said  the  shopkeeper. 

“  Which  doubtless  will  clear  up  everything,”  said  Tito. 
“  That  is  all  the  Latin  —  all  the  conclusions  that  are  to  be 
proved  true  or  false  by  the  trial.  The  rest  you  can  perceive 
is  simply  a  proclamation  of  the  Signoria  in  good  Tuscan,  call¬ 
ing  on  such  as  are  eager  to  walk  through  the  fire,  to  come 
to  the  Palazzo  and  subscribe  their  names.  Can  I  serve  you 
further  ?  If  not  —  ” 

Tito,  as  he  turned  away,  raised  his  cap  and  bent  slightly, 


RIPENl^NG  SCHEMES.  141 

with  so  easy  an  air  that  the  movement  seemed  a  natural 
prompting  of  deference. 

He  quickened  his  pace  as  he  left  the  piazza,  and  after  two 
or  three  turnings  ha  paused  in  a  quiet  street  before  a  door  at 
which  he  gave  a  ligh’tr'and  peculiar  knock.  It  was  opened  by 
a  young  woman  whom  he  chucked  under  the  chin  as  he  asked 
her  if  the  Padrone  was  within,  and  he  then  passed,  without 
further  ceremony,  through  another  door  which  stood  ajar  on 
his  right  hand.  It  admitted  him  into  a  handsome  but  untidy 
room,  where  Dolfo  Spini  sat  playing  with  a  fine  stag-hound 
which  alternately  snuffed  at  a  basket  of  pups  and  licked  his 
hands  with  that  affectionate  disregard  of  her  master’s  morals 
sometimes  held  to  be  one  of  the  most  agreeable  attributes  of 
her  sex.  He  just  looked  up  as  Tito  entered,  but  continued  his 
play,  simply  from  that  disposition  to  persistence  in  some  irrele¬ 
vant  action,  by  which  slow-witted  sensual  people  seem  to  be 
continually  counteracting  their  own  purposes.  Tito  was  patient. 

‘‘  A  handsome  hracca  that,”  he  said,  quietly,  standing  with 
his  thumbs  in  his  belt.  Presently  he  added,  in  that  cool 
liquid  tone  which  seemed  mild,  but  compelled  attention, 
‘‘  AVhen  you  have  finished  such  caresses  as  cannot  possibly  be 
deferred,  my  Dolfo,  we  will  talk  of  business,  if  you  please. 
My  time,  which  I  could  wish  to  be  eternity  at  your  service,  is 
not  entirely  my  own  this  morning.” 

‘‘  Down,  Mischief,  down !  ”  said  Spini,  with  sudden  rough¬ 
ness.  Malediction  !  ”  he  added,  still  more  gruffly,  pushing 
the  dog  aside  ;  then,  starting  from  his  seat,  he  stood  close  to 
Tito,  and  put  a  hand  on  his  shoulder  as  he  spoke. 

I  hope  your  sharp  wits  see  all  the  ins  and  outs  of  this 
business,  my  fine  necromancer,  for  it  seems  to  me  no  clearer 
than  the  bottom  of  a  sack.” 

“  What  is  your  difficulty,  my  cavalier  ?  ” 

These  accursed  Prati  Minor!  at  Santa  Croce.  They  are 
drawing  back  now.  Fra  Francesco  himself  seems  afraid  of 
sticking  to  his  challenge ;  talks  of  the  Prophet  being  likely 
to  use  magic  to  get  up  a  false  miracle  —  thinks  he  himself 
might  be  dragged  into  the  fire  and  burned,  and  the  Prophet 
might  come  out  whole  by  magic,  and  the  Church  be  none  the 


142 


ROMOLA. 


better.  And  then,  after  all  our  talking,  there ’s  not  so  much 
as  a  blessed  lay  brother  who  will  offer  himself  to  pair  with 
that  pious  sheep  Fra  Domenico.” 

“  It  is  the  peculiar  stupidity  of  the  tonsured  skull  that 
prevents  them  from  seeing  of  how  little  consequence  it  is 
whether  they  are  burned  or  not,”  said  Tito.  “  Have  you 
sworn  well  to  them  that  they  shall  be  in  no  danger  of  entering 
the  fire  ?  ” 

‘‘No,”  said  Spini,  looking  puzzled;  “because  ono  of  them 
will  be  obliged  to  go  in  with  Fra  Domenico,  who  thinks  it  a 
thousand  years  till  the  fagots  are  ready.” 

“  Not  at  all.  Fra  Domenico  himself  is  not  likely  to  go  in. 
I  have  told  you  before,  my  Dolfo,  only  your  powerful  mind  is 
not  to  be  impressed  without  more  repetition  than  suffices  for 
the  vulgar  —  I  have  told  you  that  now  you  have  got  the 
Signoria  to  take  up  this  affair  and  prevent  it  from  being 
hushed  up  by  Fra  Girolamo,  nothing  is  necessary  but  that  on 
a  given  day  the  fuel  should  be  prepared  in  the  piazza,  and  the 
people  got  together  with  the  expectation  of  seeing  something 
prodigious.  If,  after  that,  the  Prophet  quits  the  piazza  with¬ 
out  any  appearance  of  a  miracle  on  his  side,  he  is  ruined  with 
the  people  :  they  will  be  ready  to  pelt  him  out  of  the  city,  the 
Signoria  will  find  it  easy  to  banish  him  from  the  territory, 
and  his  Holiness  may  do  as  he  likes  with  him.  Therefore,  my 
Alcibiades,  swear  to  the  Franciscans  that  their  gray  frocks 
shall  not  come  within  singeing  distance  of  the  fire.” 

Spini  rubbed  the  back  of  his  head  with  one  hand,  and 
tapped  his  sword  against  his  leg  with  the  other,  to  stimulate 
his  power  of  seeing  these  intangible  combinations. 

“  But,”  he  said  presently,  looking  up  again,  “  unless  we  fall 
on  him  in  the  piazza,  when  the  people  are  in  a  rage,  and  make 
an  end  of  him  and  his  lies  then  and  there,  Valori  and  the 
Salviati  and  the  Albizzi  will  take  up  arms  and  raise  a  fight 
for  him.  I  know  that  was  talked  of  when  there  was  the 
hubbub  on  Ascension  Sunday.  And  the  people  may  turn 
round  again  :  there  may  be  a  story  raised  of  the  French  king 
coming  again,  or  some  other  cursed  chance  in  the  hypocrite’s 
favor.  The  city  will  never  be  safe  till  he ’s  out  of  it.” 


RIPENING  SCHEMES. 


143 


“  He  will  be  out  of  it  before  long,  without  your  giving  your¬ 
self  any  further  trouble  than  this  little  comedy  of  the  Trial 
by  Fire.  The  wine  and  the  sun  will  make  vinegar  without 
any  shouting  to  help  them,  as  your  Florentine  sages  would 
say.  You  will  have  the  satisfaction  of  delivering  your  city 
from  an  incubus  by  an  able  stratagem,  instead  of  risking 
blunders  with  sword-thrusts.” 

‘‘  But  suppose  he  did  get  magic  and  the  devil  to  help  him, 
and  walk  through  the  fire  after  all  ?  ”  said  Spini,  with  a 
grimace  intended  to  hide  a  certain  shyness  in  trenching  on 
this  speculative  ground.  ‘‘How  do  you  know  there’s  nothing 
in  those  things  ?  Plenty  of  scholars  believe  in  them,  and  this 
Frate  is  bad  enough  for  anything.” 

“  Oh,  of  course  there  are  such  things,”  said  Tito,  with  a 
shrug ;  “  but  I  have  particular  reasons  for  knowing  that  the 
Frate  is  not  on  such  terms  with  the  devil  as  can  give  him  any 
confidence  in  this  affair.  The  only  magic  he  relies  on  is  his 
own  ability.” 

“  Ability  !  ”  said  Spini.  “  Do  you  call  it  ability  to  be  setting 
Florence  at  loggerheads  with  the  Pope  and  all  the  powers  of 
Italy — all  to  keep  beckoning  at  the  French  king  who  never 
comes  ?  You  may  call  him  able,  but  I  call  him  a  hypocrite,  who 
wants  to  be  master  of  everybody,  and  get  himself  made  Pope.” 

“You  judge  with  your  usual  penetration,  my  captain,  but 
our  opinions  do  not  clash.  The  Frate,  wanting  to  be  master, 
and  to  carry  out  his  projects  against  the  Pope,  requires  the 
lever  of  a  foreign  power,  and  requires  Florence  as  a  fulcrum. 
I  used  to  think  him  a  narrow-minded  bigot,  but  now,  I  think 
him  a  shrewd  ambitious  man  who  knows  what  he  is  aiming  at, 
and  directs  his  aim  as  skilfully  as  you  direct  a  ball  when  you 
are  playing  at  maglioP 

“  Yes,  yes,”  said  Spini,  cordially,  “  I  can  aim  a  ball.” 

“  It  is  true,”  said  Tito,  with  bland  gravity ;  “  and  I  should 
not  have  troubled  you  with  my  trivial  remark  on  the  Frate’s 
ability,  but  that  you  may  see  how  this  will  heighten  the  credit 
of  your  success  against  him  at  Rome  and  at  Milan,  which  is 
sure  to  serve  you  in  good  stead  when  the  city  comes  to  change 
its  policy.” 


144 


ROMOLA. 


‘‘  Well,  thou  art  a  good  little  demon,  and  shalt  have  good 
pay,”  said  Spini,  patronizingly ;  whereupon  he  thought  it  only 
natural  that  the  useful  Greek  adventurer  should  smile  with 
gratification  as  he  said  — 

“  Of  course,  any  advantage  to  me  depends  entirely  on 
your  —  ” 

“We  shall  have  our  supper  at  my  palace  to-night,”  inter¬ 
rupted  Spini,  with  a  significant  nod  and  an  affectionate  pat  on 
Tito’s  shoulder,  “and  I  shall  expound  the  new  scheme  to  them 
all.” 

“  Pardon,  my  magnificent  patron,”  said  Tito  ;  “  the  scheme 
has  been  the  same  from  the  first  —  it  has  never  varied  except 
in  your  memory.  Are  you  sure  you  have  fast  hold  of  it 
now  ?  ” 

Spini  rehearsed. 

“One  thing  more,”  he  said,  as  Tito  was  hastening  away. 
“  There  is  that  sharp-nosed  notary,  Ser  Ceccone  ;  he  has  been 
handy  of  late.  Tell  me,  you  who  can  see  a  man  wink  when 
you  ’re  behind  him,  do  you  think  I  may  go  on  making  use  of 
him  ?  ” 

Tito  dared  not  say  “No.”  He  knew  his  companion  too 
well  to  trust  him  with  advice  when  all  Spini’s  vanity  and  self- 
interest  were  not  engaged  in  concealing  the  adviser. 

“Doubtless,”  he  answered,  promptly.  “I  have  nothing  to 
say  against  Ceccone.” 

That  suggestion  of  the  notary’s  intimate  access  to  Spini 
caused  Tito  a  passing  twinge,  interrupting  his  amused  satis¬ 
faction  in  the  success  with  which  he  made  a  tool  of  the  man 
who  fancied  himself  a  patron.  For  he  had  been  rather  afraid 
of  Ser  Ceccone.  Tito’s  nature  made  him  peculiarly  alive  to 
circumstances  that  might  be  turned  to  his  disadvantage  ;  his 
memory  was  much  haunted  by  such  possibilities,  stimulating 
him  to  contrivances  by  which  he  might  ward  them  off.  And 
it  was  not  likely  that  he  should  forget  that  October  morning 
more  than  a  year  ago,  when  Romola  had  appeared  suddenly 
before  him  at  the  door  of  Nello’s  shop,  and  had  compelled  him 
to  declare  his  certainty  that  Fra  Girolamo  was  not  going  out¬ 
side  the  gates.  The  fact  that  Ser  Ceccone  had  been  a  witness 


RIPENING  SCHEMES. 


145 


of  that  scene,  together  with  Tito’s  perception  that  for  some 
reason  or  other  he  was  an  object  of  dislike  to  the  notary,  had 
received  a  new  importance  from  the  recent  turn  of  events. 
For  after  having  been  implicated  in  the  Medicean  plots,  and 
having  found  it  advisable  in  consequence  to  retire  into  the 
country  for  some  time,  Ser  Ceccone  had  of  late,  since  his  re¬ 
appearance  in  the  city,  attached  himself  to  the  Arrabbiati,  and 
cultivated  the  patronage  of  Dolfo  Spini.  Now  that  captain 
of  the  Compagnacci  was  much  given,  when  in  the  company  of 
intimates,  to  confidential  narrative  about  his  own  doings,  and 
if  Ser  Ceccone’s  powers  of  combination  were  sharpened  by 
enmity,  he  might  gather  some  knowledge  which  he  could  use 
against  Tito  with  very  unpleasant  results. 

It  would  be  pitiable  to  be  balked  in  well-conducted  schemes 
by  an  insignificant  notary ;  to  be  lamed  by  the  sting  of  an 
insect  whom  he  had  offended  unawares.  “  But,”  Tito  said  to 
himself,  “the  man’s  dislike  to  me  can  be  nothing  deeper  than 
the  ill-humor  of  a  dinnerless  dog ;  I  shall  conquer  it  if  I  can 
make  him  prosperous.”  And  he  had  been  very  glad  of  an 
opportunity  which  had  presented  itself  of  providing  the  notary 
with  a  temporary  post  as  an  extra  cancelliere  or  registering 
secretary  under  the  Ten,  believing  that  with  this  sop  and  the 
expectation  of  more,  the  waspish  cur  must  be  quite  cured  of 
the  disposition  to  bite  him. 

But  perfect  scheming  demands  omniscience,  and  the  notary’s 
envy  had  been  stimulated  into  hatred  by  causes  of  which  Tito 
knew  nothing.  That  evening  when  Tito,  returning  from  his 
critical  audience  with  the  Special  Council,  had  brushed  by 
Ser  Ceccone  on  the  stairs,  the  notary,  who  had  only  just 
returned  from  Pistoja.,  and  learned  the  arrest  of  the  conspira¬ 
tors,  was  bound  on  an  errand  which  bore  a  humble  resemblance 
to  Tito’s.  He  also,  without  giving  up  a  show  of  popular  zeal, 
had  been  putting  in  the  Medicean  lottery.  He  also  had  been 
];)rivy  to  the  unexecuted  plot,  and  was  willing  to  tell  what  he 
knew,  but  knew  much  less  to  tell.  He  also  would  have  been 
willing  to  go  on  treacherous  errands,  but  a  more  eligible  agent 
had  forestalled  him.  His  propositions  were  received  coldly ; 
the  council,  he  was  told,  was  already  in  possession  of  the 


•46 


KOMOLA. 


needed  information,  and  since  he  had  been  thus  busy  in  sedi¬ 
tion,  it  would  be  well  for  him  to  retire  out  of  the  way  of 
mischief,  otherwise  the  government  might  be  obliged  to  take 
note  of  him.  Ser  Ceccone  wanted  no  evidence  to  make  him 
attribute  his  failure  to  Tito,  and  his  spite  was  the  more  bitter 
because  the  nature  of  the  case  compelled  him  to  hold  his 
peace  about  it.  Nor  was  this  the  whole  of  his  grudge  against 
the  flourishing  Melema.  On  issuing  from  his  hiding-place, 
and  attaching  himself  to  the  Arrabbiati,  he  had  earned  some 
pay  as  one  of  the  spies  who  reported  information  on  Florentine 
affairs  to  the  Milanese  court ;  but  his  pay  had  been  small,  not¬ 
withstanding  his  pains  to  write  full  letters,  and  he  had  lately 
been  apprised  that  his  news  was  seldom  more  than  a  late  and 
imperfect  edition  of  what  was  known  already.  Now  Ser 
Ceccone  had  no  positive  knowledge  that  Tito  had  an  under¬ 
hand  connection  with  the  Arrabbiati  and  the  Court  of  Milan, 
but  he  had  a  suspicion  of  which  he  chewed  the  cud  with  as 
strong  a  sense  of  flavor  as  if  it  had  been  a  certainty. 

This  fine-grown  vigorous  hatred  could  swallow  the  feeble 
opiate  of  Tito’s  favors,  and  be  as  lively  as  ever  after  it.  Why 
should  Ser  Ceccone  like  Melema  any  the  better  for  doing  him 
favors  ?  Doubtless  the  suave  secretary  had  his  own  ends  to 
serve ;  and  what  right  had  he  to  the  superior  position  which 
made  it  possible  for  him  to  show  favor  ?  But  since  he  had 
tuned  his  voice  to  flattery,  Ser  Ceccone  would  pitch  his  in  the 
same  key,  and  it  remained  to  be  seen  who  would  win  at  the 
game  of  outwitting. 

To  have  a  mind  well  oiled  with  that  sort  of  argument  which 
prevents  any  claim  from  grasping  it,  seems  eminently  conven¬ 
ient  sometimes  :  only  the  oil  becomes  objectionable  when  we 
find  it  anointing  other  minds  on  which  we  want  to  establish 
a  hold. 

Tito,  however,  not  being  quite  omniscient,  felt  now  no  more 
than  a  passing  twinge  of  uneasiness  at  the  suggestion  of  Ser 
Ceccone’s  power  to  hurt  him.  It  was  only  for  a  little  while 
that  he  cared  greatly  about  keeping  clear  of  suspicions  and 
hostility.  He  was  now  playing  his  final  game  in  Florence, 
and  the  skill  he  was  conscious  of  applying  gave  him  a  pleasure 


THE  PROPHET  IN  HIS  CELL. 


147 


in  it  even  apart  from  the  expected  winnings.  The  errand  on 
which  he  was  bent  to  San  Marco  was  a  stroke  in  which  he  felt 
so  much  confidence  that  he  had  already  given  notice  to  the 
Ten  of  his  desire  to  resign  his  office  at  an  indefinite  period 
within  the  next  month  or  two,  and  had  obtained  permission  to 
make  that  resignation  suddenly,  if  his  affairs  needed  it,  with 
the  understanding  that  Niccolo  Macchiavelli  was  to  be  his  pro¬ 
visional  substitute,  if  not  his  successor.  He  was  acting  on 
hypothetic  grounds,  but  this  was  the  sort  of  action  that  had 
the  keenest  interest  for  his  diplomatic  mind.  From  a  combi¬ 
nation  of  general  knowledge  concerning  Savonarola’s  purposes 
with  diligently  observed  details  he  had  framed  a  conjecture 
which  he  was  about  to  verify  by  this  visit  to  San  Marco.  If 
he  proved  to  be  right,  his  game  would  be  won,  and  he  might 
soon  turn  his  back  on  Florence.  He  looked  eagerly  towards 
that  consummation,  for  many  circumstances  besides  his  own 
weariness  of  the  place  told  him  that  it  was  time  for  him  to  be 
gone. 


- » 

CHAPTEK  LXIV. 

THE  PROPHET  IN  HIS  CELL. 

Tito’s  visit  to  San  Marco  had  been  announced  beforehand, 
and  he  was  at  once  conducted  by  Fra  Niccolb,  Savonarola’s 
secretary,  up  the  spiral  staircase  into  the  long  corridors  lined 
with  cells  —  corridors  where  Fra  Angelico’s  frescos,  delicate 
as  the  rainbow  on  the  melting  cloud,  startled  the  unaccustomed 
eye  here  and  there,  as  if  they  had  been  sudden  reflections  cast 
from  an  ethereal  world,  where  the  Madonna  sat  crowned  in 
her  radiant  glory,  and  the  Divine  infant  looked  forth  with 
perpetual  promise. 

It  was  an  hour  of  relaxation  in  the  monastery,  and  most  of 
the  cells  were  empty.  The  light  through  the  narrow  windows 
looked  in  on  nothing  but  bare  walls,  and  the  hard  pallet  and 
the  crucifix.  And  even  behind  that  door  at  the  end  of  a  long 
corridor,  in  the  inner  cell  opening  from  an  antechamber  where 


148 


ROMOLA. 


the  Prior  usually  sat  at  his  desk  or  received  private  visitors, 
the  high  jet  of  light  fell  on  only  one  more  object  that  looked 
quite  as  coiimion  a  monastic  sight  as  the  bare  walls  and  hard 
pallet.  It  was  but  the  back  of  a  figure  in  the  long  white  Do¬ 
minican  tunic  and  scapulary,  kneeling  with  bowed  head  before 
a  crucifix.  It  might  have  been  any  ordinary  Fra  Girolamo, 
who  had  nothing  worse  to  confess  than  thinking  of  wrong 
things  when  he  was  singing  in  coro,  or  feeling  a  spiteful  joy 
when  Fra  Benedetto  dropped  the  ink  over  his  own  miniatures 
in  the  breviary  he  was  illuminating  —  who  had  no  higher 
thought  than  that  of  climbing  safely  into  Paradise  up  the 
narrow  ladder  of  prayer,  fasting,  and  obedience.  But  under 
this  particular  white  tunic  there  was  a  heart  beating  with  a 
consciousness  inconceivable  to  the  average  monk,  and  perhaps 
hard  to  be  conceived  by  any  man  who  has  not  arrived  at  self- 
knowledge  through  a  tumultuous  inner  life  :  a  consciousness 
in  which  irrevocable  errors  and  lapses  from  veracity  were  so 
entwined  with  noble  purposes  and  sincere  beliefs,  in  which 
self-justifying  expediency  was  so  inwoven  with  the  tissue  of  a 
great  work  which  the  whole  being  seemed  as  unable  to  aban¬ 
don  as  the  body  was  unable  to  abandon  glowing  and  trembling 
before  the  objects  of  hope  and  fear,  that  it  was  perhaps  im¬ 
possible,  whatever  course  might  be  adopted,  for  the  conscience 
to  find  perfect  repose. 

Savonarola  was  not  only  in  the  attitude  of  prayer,  there 
were  Latin  words  of  prayer  on  his  lips  ;  and  yet  he  was  not 
praying.  He  had  entered  his  cell,  had  fallen  on  his  knees, 
and  burst  into  words  of  supplication,  seeking  in  this  way  for 
an  influx  of  calmness  which  would  be  a  warrant  to  him  that 
the  resolutions  urged  on  him  by  crowding  thoughts  and  pas¬ 
sions  were  not  wresting  him  away  from  the  Divine  support ; 
but  the  previsions  and  impulses  which  had  been  at  work  within 
him  for  the  last  hour  were  too  imperious ;  and  while  he 
pressed  his  hands  against  his  face,  and  while  his  lips  were 
uttering  audibly,  Cor  mundum  crea  in  me,”  his  mind  was 
still  filled  with  the  images  of  the  snare  his  enemies  had  pre¬ 
pared  for  him,  was  still  busy  with  the  arguments  by  which  he 
could  justify  himself  against  their  taunts  and  accusations. 


THE  PROPHET  IN  HIS  CELL. 


149 


And  it  was  not  only  against  liis  opponents  that  Savonarola 
had  to  defend  himself.  This  morning  he  had  had  new  proof 
that  his  friends  and  followers  were  as  much  inclined  to  urge 
on  the  Trial  by  Fire  as  his  enemies :  desiring  and  tacitly  ex¬ 
pecting  that  he  himself  would  at  last  accept  the  challenge  and 
evoke  the  long-expected  miracle  which  was  to  dissipate  doubt 
and  triumph  over  malignity.  Had  he  not  said  that  God  would 
declare  himself  at  the  htting  time  ?  And  to  the  understand¬ 
ing  of  plain  Florentines,  eager  to  get  party  questions  settled, 
it  seemed  that  no  time  could  be  more  fitting  than  this.  Cer¬ 
tainly,  if  Fra  Domenico  walked  through  the  fire  unhurt,  that 
would  be  a  miracle,  and  the  faith  and  ardor  of  that  good 
brother  were  felt  to  be  a  cheering  augury ;  but  Savonarola  was 
acutely  conscious  that  the  secret  longing  of  his  followers  to 
see  him  accept  the  challenge  had  not  been  dissipated  by  any 
reasons  he  had  given  for  his  refusal. 

Yet  it  was  impossible  to  him  to  satisfy  them  ;  and  with  bit¬ 
ter  distress  he  saw  now  that  it  was  impossible  for  him  any 
longer  to  resist  the  prosecution  of  the  trial  in  Fra  Domenico’s 
case.  Not  that  Savonarola  had  uttered  and  written  a  falsity 
when  he  declared  his  belief  in  a  future  supernatural  attesta¬ 
tion  of  his  work  ;  but  his  mind  was  so  constituted  that  while 
it  was  easy  for  him  to  believe  in  a  miracle  which,  being  distant 
and  undefined,  was  screened  behind  the  strong  reasons  he  saw 
for  its  occurrence,  and  yet  easier  for  him  to  have  a  belief  in 
inward  miracles  such  as  his  own  prophetic  inspiration  and 
divinely  wrought  intuitions ;  it  was  at  the  same  time  insur¬ 
mountably  difficult  to  him  to  believe  in  the  probability  of  a 
miracle  which,  like  this  of  being  carried  unhurt  through  the 
fire,  pressed  in  all  its  details  on  his  imagination  and  involved 
a  demand  not  only  for  belief  but  for  exceptional  action. 

Savonarola’s  nature  was  one  of  those  in  which  opposing 
tendencies  co-exist  in  almost  equal  strength :  the  passionate 
sensibility  which,  impatient  of  definite  thought,  floods  every 
idea  with  emotion  and  tends  towards  contemplative  ecstasy, 
alternated  in  him  with  a  keen  perception  of  outward  facts 
and  a  vigorous  practical  judgment  of  men  and  things.  And 
in  this  case  of  the  Trial  by  Fire,  the  latter  characteristics  were 


ROMOLA. 


IS"} 

stimulated  into  unusual  activity  by  an  acute  physical  sensi¬ 
tiveness  which  gives  overpowering  force  to  the  conception  of 
pain  and  destruction  as  a  necessary  sequence  of  facts  which 
have  already  been  causes  of  pain  in  our  experience.  The 
promptitude  with  which  men  will  consent  to  touch  red-hot 
iron  with  a  wet  finger  is  not  to  be  measured  by  their  theoretic 
acceptance  of  the  impossibility  that  the  iron  will  burn  them : 
practical  belief  depends  on  what  is  most  strongly  represented 
in  the  mind  at  a  given  moment.  And  with  the  Frate’s  con¬ 
stitution,  when  the  Trial  by  Fire  was  urged  on  his  imagina¬ 
tion  as  an  immediate  demand,  it  was  impossible  for  him  to 
believe  that  he  or  any  other  man  could  walk  through  the 
flames  unhurt  —  impossible  for  him  to  believe  that  even  if 
he  resolved  to  offer  himself,  he  would  not  shrink  at  the  last 
moment. 

But  the  Florentines  were  not  likely  to  make  these  fine  dis¬ 
tinctions.  To  the  common  run  of  mankind  it  has  always 
seemed  a  proof  of  mental  vigor  to  find  moral  questions  easy, 
and  judge  conduct  according  to  concise  alternatives.  And 
nothing  was  likely  to  seem  plainer  than  that  a  man  who  at 
one  time  declared  that  God  would  not  leave  him  without  the 
guarantee  of  a  miracle,  and  yet  drew  back  when  it  was  pro¬ 
posed  to  test  his  declaration,  had  said  what  he  did  not  believe. 
Were  not  Fra  Domenico  and  Fra  Mariano,  and  scores  of  Piag- 
noni  besides,  ready  to  enter  the  fire  ?  What  was  the  cause 
of  their  superior  courage,  if  it  was  not  their  superior  faith  ? 
Savonarola  could  not  have  explained  his  conduct  satisfactorily 
to  his  friends,  even  if  he  had  been  able  to  explain  it  thoroughly 
to  himself.  And  he  was  not.  Our  naked  feelings  make  haste  to 
clothe  themselves  in  propositions  which  lie  at  hand  among  our 
store  of  opinions,  and  to  give  a  true  account  of  what  passes 
within  us  something  else  is  necessary  besides  sincerity,  even 
when  sincerity  is  unmixed.  In  these  very  moments,  when 
Savonarola  was  kneeling  in  audible  prayer,  he  had  ceased  to 
hear  the  words  on  his  lips.  They  were  drowned  by  argumen¬ 
tative  voices  within  him  that  shaped  their  reasons  more  and 
more  for  an  outward  audience. 

To  appeal  to  heaven  for  a  miracle  by  a  rash  acceptance  of 


THE  PROPHET  IN  HIS  CELL. 


151 


a  challenge,  which  is  a  mere  snare  prepared  for  me  by  ignoble 
foes,  would  be  a  tempting  of  God,  and  the  appeal  would  not 
be  responded  to.  Let  the  Pope’s  legate  come,  let  the  ambas¬ 
sadors  of  all  the  great  Powers  come  and  promise  that  the  call¬ 
ing  of  a  General  Council  and  the  reform  of  the  Church  shall 
hang  on  the  miracle,  and  I  will  enter  the  flames,  trusting  that 
God  will  not  withhold  His  seal  from  that  great  work.  Until 
then  I  reserve  myself  for  higher  duties  which  are  directly 
laid  upon  me :  it  is  not  permitted  to  me  to  leap  from  the 
chariot  for  the  sake  of  wrestling  with  every  loud  vaunter. 
But  Fra  Domenico’s  invincible  zeal  to  enter  into  the  trial 
may  be  the  sign  of  a  Divine  vocation,  may  be  a  pledge  that 
the  miracle  —  ” 

But  no !  when  Savonarola  brought  his  mind  close  to  the 
threatened  scene  in  the  piazza,  and  imagined  a  human  body 
entering  the  fire,  his  belief  recoiled  again.  It  was  not  an 
event  that  his  imagination  could  simply  see :  he  felt  it  with 
shuddering  vibrations  to  the  extremities  of  his  sensitive  fin¬ 
gers.  The  miracle  could  not  be.  Nay,  the  trial  itself  was 
not  to  happen :  he  was  warranted  in  doing  all  in  his  power  to 
hinder  it.  The  fuel  might 'be  got  ready  in  the  piazza,  the 
people  might  be  assembled,  the  preparatory  formalities  might 
be  gone  through :  all  this  was  perhaps  inevitable  now,  and 
he  could  no  longer  resist  it  without  bringing  dishonor  on  — 
himself?  Yes,  and  therefore  on  the  cause  of  God.  But  it 
was  not  really  intended  that  the  Franciscan  should  enter  the 
fire,  and  while  he  hung  back  there  would  be  the  means  of 
preventing  Fra  Domenico’s  entrance.  At  the  very  worst,  if 
Fra  Domenico  were  compelled  to  enter,  he  should  carry  the 
consecrated  Host  with  him,  and  with  that  Mystery  in  his 
hand,  there  might  be  a  warrant  for  expecting  that  the  ordi¬ 
nary  effects  of  fire  would  be  stayed ;  or,  more  probably,  this 
demand  would  be  resisted,  and  might  thus  be  a  final  obstacle 
to  the  trial. 

But  these  intentions  could  not  be  avowed :  he  must  appear 
frankly  to  await  the  trial,  and  to  trust  in  its  issue.  That 
dissidence  between  inward  reality  and  outward  seeming  was 
not  the  Christian  simplicity  after  which  he  had  striven  through 


152 


EOMOLA. 


years  of  his  youth  and  prime,  and  which  he  had  preached  as  a 
chief  fruit  of  the  Divine  life.  In  the  stress  and  heat  of  the 
day,  with  cheeks  burning,  with  shouts  ringing  in  the  ears, 
who  is  so  blest  as  to  remember  the  yearnings  he  had  in 
the  cool  and  silent  morning  and  know  that  he  has  not  belied 
them  ? 

“  0  God,  it  is  for  the  sake  of  the  people  —  because  they  are 
blind  —  because  their  faith  depends  on  me.  If  I  put  on  sack¬ 
cloth  and  cast  myself  among  the  ashes,  who  will  take  up  the 
standard  and  head  the  battle  ?  Have  I  not  been  led  by  a  way 
which  I  knew  not  to  the  work  that  lies  before  me  ?  ” 

The  conflict  was  one  that  could  not  end,  and  in  the  effort  at 
prayerful  pleading  the  uneasy  mind  laved  its  smart  continu¬ 
ally  in  thoughts  of  the  greatness  of  that  task  which  there  was 
no  man  else  to  fulfil  if  he  forsook  it.  It  was  not  a  thing  of 
every  day  that  a  man  should  be  inspired  with  the  vision  and 
the  daring  that  made  a  sacred  rebel. 

Even  the  words  of  prayer  had  died  away.  He  continued  to 
kneel,  but  his  mind  was  filled  with  the  images  of  results  to 
be  felt  through  all  Europe ;  and  the  sense  of  immediate  diffi¬ 
culties  was  being  lost  in  the  glow  of  that  vision,  when  the 
knocking  at  the  door  announced  the  expected  visit. 

Savonarola  drew  on  his  mantle  before  he  left  his  cell,  as 
was  his  custom  when  he  received  visitors ;  and  with  that 
immediate  response  to  any  appeal  from  without  which  belongs 
to  a  power-loving  nature  accustomed  to  make  its  power  felt  by 
speech,  he  met  Tito  with  a  glance  as  self-possessed  and  strong 
as  if  he  had  risen  from  resolution  instead  of  conflict. 

Tito  did  not  kneel,  but  simply  made  a  greeting  of  profound 
deference,  which  Savonarola  received  quietly  without  any 
sacerdotal  words,  and  then  desiring  him  to  be  seated,  said  at 
once  — 

“  Your  business  is  something  of  weight,  my  sou,  that  could 
not  be  conveyed  through  others  ?  ” 

“  Assuredly,  father,  else  I  should  not  have  presumed  to  ask 
it.  I  will  not  trespass  on  your  time  by  any  proem.  I 
gathered  from  a  remark  of  Messer  Domenico  Mazzinghi  that 
you  might  be  glad  to  make  use  of  the  next  special  courier  who 


THE  PROPHET  IN  HIS  CELL. 


E53 


is  sent  to  France  with  despatches  from  the  Ten.  I  must  en¬ 
treat  you  to  pardon  me  if  I  have  been  too  officious ;  but  inas¬ 
much  as  Messer  Domenico  is  at  this  moment  away  at  his 
villa,  I  wished  to  apprise  you  that  a  courier  carrying  important 
letters  is  about  to  depart  for  Lyons  at  daybreak  to-morrow.” 

The  muscles  of  Fra  Girolamo’s  face  were  eminently  under 
command,  as  must  be  the  case  with  all  men  whose  personality 
is  powerful,  and  in  deliberate  speech  he  was  habitually  cau¬ 
tious,  confiding  his  intentions  to  none  without  necessity.  But 
under  any  strong  mental  stimulus,  his  eyes  were  liable  to  a 
dilatation  and  added  brilliancy  that  no  strength  of  will  could 
control.  He  looked  steadily  at  Tito,  and  did  not  answer 
immediately,  as  if  he  had  to  consider  whether  the  information 
he  had  just  heard  met  any  purpose  of  his. 

Tito,  whose  glance  never  seemed  observant,  but  rarely  let 
anything  escape  it,  had  expected  precisely  that  dilatation  and 
flash  of  Savonarola’s  eyes  which  he  had  noted  on  other 
occasions.  He  saw  it,  and  then  immediately  busied  himself 
in  adjusting  his  gold  fibula,  which  had  got  wrong ;  seeming  to 
imply  that  he  awaited  an  answer  patiently. 

The  fact  was  that  Savonarola  had  expected  to  receive  this 
intimation  from  Domenico  Mazzinghi,  one  of  the  Ten,  an 
ardent  disciple  of  his  whom  he  had  already  employed  to 
write  a  private  letter  to  the  Florentine  ambassador  in  France, 
to  prepare  the  way  for  a  letter  to  the  French  king  himself  in 
Savonarola’s  handwriting,  which  now  lay  ready  in  the  desk  at 
his  side.  It  was  a  letter  calling  on  the  king  to  assist  in  sum¬ 
moning  a  General  Council,  that  might  reform  the  abuses  of 
the  Church,  and  begin  by  deposing  Pope  Alexander,  who  was 
not  rightfully  Pope,  being  a  vicious  unbeliever,  elected  by 
corruption  and  governing  by  simony. 

This  fact  was  not  what  Tito  knew,  but  what  his  constructive 
talent,  guided  by  subtle  indications,  had  led  him  to  guess  and 
hope. 

“  It  is  true,  my  son,”  said  Savonarola,  quietly,  —  “  it  is  true 
I  have  letters  which  I  would  gladly  send  by  safe  conveyance 
under  cover  to  our  ambassador.  Our  community  of  San 
Marco,  as  you  know,  has  affairs  in  France,  being,  among  other 


154 


ROMOLA. 


things,  responsible  for  a  debt  to  that  singularly  wise  and  ex- 
perienced  Frenchman,  Signor  Philippe  de  Comines,  on  the 
library  of  the  Medici,  which  we  purchased ;  but  I  apprehend 
that  Domenico  Mazzinghi  himself  may  return  to  the  city  be¬ 
fore  evening,  and  I  should  gain  more  time  for  preparation  of 
the  letters  if  I  waited  to  deposit  them  in  his  handsP 

‘‘Assuredly,  reverend  father,  that  might  be  better  on  all 
grounds,  except  one,  namely,  that  if  anything  occurred  to 
hinder  Messer  Domenico’s  return,  the  despatch  of  the  letters 
would  require  either  that  I  should  come  to  San  Marco  again 
at  a  late  hour,  or  that  you  should  send  them  to  me  by  your 
secretary ;  and  I  am  aware  that  you  wish  to  guard  against  the 
false  inferences  which  might  be  drawn  from  a  too  freqiient 
communication  between  yourself  and  any  officer  of  the  govern¬ 
ment.”  In  throwing  out  this  difficulty  Tito  felt  that  the  more 
unwillingness  the  Frate  showed  to  trust  him,  the  more  certain 
he  would  be  of  his  conjecture. 

Savonarola  was  silent ;  but  while  he  kept  his  mouth  firm, 
a  slight  glow  rose  in  his  face  with  the  suppressed  excitement 
that  was  growing  within  him.  It  would  be  a  critical  moment 
—  that  in  which  he  delivered  the  letter  out  of  his  own 
hands. 

“It  is  most  probable  that  Messer  Domenico  will  return  in 
time,”  said  Tito,  affecting  to  consider  the  Frate’s  determina¬ 
tion  settled,  and  rising  from  his  chair  as  he  spoke.  “With 
your  permission,  I  will  take  my  leave,  father,  not  to  trespass 
on  your  time  when  my  errand  is  done ;  but  as  I  may  not  be 
favored  with  another  interview,  I  venture  to  confide  to  you  — 
what  is.  not  yet  known  to  others,  except  to  the  magnificent 
Ten  —  that  I  contemplate  resigning  my  secretaryship,  and 
leaving  Florence  shortly.  Am  I  presuming  too  much  on  your 
interest  in  stating  what  relates  chiefly  to  myself  ?  ” 

“  Speak  on,  my  son,”  said  the  Frate ;  “  I  desire  to  know 
your  prospects.” 

“  I  find,  then,  that  I  have  mistaken  my  real  vocation  in 
forsaking  the  career  of  pure  letters,  for  which  I  was  brought 
up.  The  politics  of  Florence,  father,  are  worthy  to  occupy 
the  greatest  mind  —  to  occupy  yours  —  when  a  man  is  in  a 


THE  PROPHET  IN  HIS  CELL. 


155 


position  to  execute  his  own  ideas ;  but  when,  like  me,  he  can 
only  hope  to  be  the  mere  instrument  of  changing  schemes,  he 
requires  to  be  animated  by  the  minor  attachments  of  a  born 
Florentine :  also,  my  wife’s  unhappy  alienation  from  a  Flor¬ 
entine  residence  since  the  painful  events  of  August  naturally 
influences  me.  I  wish  to  join  her.” 

Savonarola  inclined  his  head  approvingly. 

“I  intend,  then,  soon  to  leave  Florence,  to  visit  the  chief 
courts  of  Europe,  and  to  widen  my  acquaintance  with  the  men 
of  letters  in  the  various  universities.  I  shall  go  first  to  the 
court  of  Hungary,  where  scholars  are  eminently  welcome ; 
and  I  shall  probably  start  in  a  week  or  ten  days.  I  have  not 
concealed  from  you,  father,  that  I  am  no  religious  enthusiast ; 
I  have  not  my  wife’s  ardor ;  but  religious  enthusiasm,  as  I 
conceive,  is  not  necessary  in  order  to  appreciate  the  grandeur 
and  justice  of  your  views  concerning  the  government  of 
nations  and  the  Church.  And  if  you  condescend  to  intrust  me 
with  any  commission  that  will  further  the  relations  you  wish  to 
establish,  I  shall  feel  honored.  May  I  now  take  my  leave  ?  ” 

“  Stay,  my  son.  When  you  depart  from  Florence  I  will 
send  a  letter  to  your  wife,  of  whose  spiritual  welfare  I  would 
fain  be  assured,  for  she  left  me  in  anger.  As  for  the  letters 
to  France,  such  as  I  have  ready  —  ” 

Savonarola  rose  and  turned  to  his  desk  as  he  spoke.  He 
took  from  it  a  letter  on  which  Tito  could  see,  but  not  read,  an 
address  in  the  Frate’s  own  minute  and  exquisite  handwriting, 
still  to  be  seen  covering  the  margins  of  his  Bibles.  He  took 
a  large  sheet  of  paper,  enclosed  the  letter,  and  sealed  it. 

“  Pardon  me,  father,”  said  Tito,  before  Savonarola  had  time 
to  speak,  unless  it  were  your  decided  wish,  I  would  rather 
not  incur  the  responsibility  of  carrying  away  the  letter. 
Messer  Domenico  Mazzinghi  will  doubtless  return,  or,  if  not. 
Fra  ]Sriccol6  can  convey  it  to  me  at  the  second  hour  of  the 
evening,  when  I  shall  place  the  other  despatches  in  the 
courier’s  hands.” 

“  At  present,  my  son,”  said  the  Frate,  waiving  that  point, 
“  I  wish  you  to  address  this  packet  to  our  ambassador  in  your 
own  handwriting,  which  is  preferable  to  my  secretary’s.” 


156 


ROMOLA. 


Tito  sat  down  to  write  the  address  while  the  Frate  stood  by 
him  with  folded  arms,  the  glow  mounting  in  his  cheek,  and 
his  lip  at  last  quivering.  Tito  rose  and  was  about  to  move 
away,  when  Savonarola  said  abruptly  —  “  Take  it,  my  son. 
There  is  no  use  in  waiting.  It  does  not  please  me  that  Fra 
Niccolo  should  have  needless  errands  to  the  Palazzo.’’ 

As  Tito  took  the  letter,  Savonarola  stood  in  suppressed 
excitement  that  forbade  further  speech.  There  seems  to  be  a 
subtle  emanation  from  passionate  natures  like  his,  making 
tlieir  mental  states  tell  immediately  on  others  ;  when  they 
are  absent-minded  and  inwardly  excited  there  is  silence  in 
the  air. 

Tito  made  a  deep  reverence  and  went  out  with  the  letter 
under  his  mantle. 

The  letter  was  duly  delivered  to  the  courier  and  carried  out 
of  Florence.  But  before  that  happened  another  messenger, 
privately  employed  by  Tito,  had  conveyed  information  in 
cipher,  which  was  carried  by  a  series  of  relays  to  armed  agents 
of  Ludovico  Sforza,  Duke  of  Milan,  on  the  watch  for  the 
very  purpose  of  intercepting  despatches  on  the  borders  of  the 
Milanese  territory. 


CHAPTER  LXV. 

THE  TRIAL  BY  FIRE. 

Little  more  than  a  week  after,  on  the  7th  of  April,  the 
great  Piazza  della  Signoria  presented  a  stranger  spectacle  even 
than  the  famous  Bonfire  of  Vanities.  And  a  greater  multi¬ 
tude  had  assembled  to  see  it  than  had  ever  before  tried  to  find 
place  for  themselves  in  the  wide  piazza,  even  on  the  day  of 
San  Giovanni. 

It  was  near  mid-day,  and  since  the  early  morning  there  had 
been  a  gradual  swarming  of  the  people  at  every  coign  of  van¬ 
tage  or  disadvantage  offered  by  the  facades  and  roofs  of  the 
houses,  and  such  spaces  of  the  pavement  as  were  free  to  the 


THE  TRIAL  BY  FIRE. 


157 


public.  Men  were  seated  on  iron  rods  that  made  a  sharp 
angle  with  the  rising  wall,  were  clutching  slim  pillars  with 
arms  and  legs,  were  astride  on  the  necks  of  the  rough  statuary 
that  here  and  there  surmounted  the  entrances  of  the  grander 
houses,  were  finding  a  palm’s-breadth  of  seat  on  a  bit  of  archi¬ 
trave,  and  a  footing  on  the  rough  projections  of  the  rustic 
stonework,  while  they  clutched  the  strong  iron  rings  or  staples 
driven  into  the  walls  beside  them. 

For  they  were  come  to  see  a  Miracle :  cramped  limbs  and 
abraded  flesh  seemed  slight  inconveniences  with  that  prospect 
close  at  hand.  It  is  the  ordinary  lot  of  mankind  to  hear  of 
miracles,  and  more  or  less  to  believe  in  them  ;  but  now  the 
Florentines  were  going  to  see  one.  At  the  very  least  they 
would  see  half  a  miracle  ;  for  if  the  monk  did  not  come  whole 
out  of  the  fire,  they  would  see  him  enter  it,  and  infer  that  he 
was  burned  in  the  middle. 

There  could  be  no  reasonable  doubt,  it  seemed,  that  the  fire 
would  be  kindled,  and  that  the  monks  would  enter  it.  For 
there,  before  their  eyes,  was  the  long  platform,  eight  feet 
broad,  and  twenty  yards  long,  with  a  grove  of  fuel  heaped  up 
terribly,  great  branches  of  dry  oak  as  a  foundation,  crackling 
thorns  above,  and  well-anointed  tow  and  rags,  known  to  make 
fine  flames  in  Florentine  illuminations.  The  platform  began 
at  the  corner  of  the  marble  terrace  in  front  of  the  Old  Palace, 
close  to  Marzocco,  the  stone  lion,  whose  aged  visage  looked 
frowningly  along  the  grove  of  fuel  that  stretched  obliquely 
across  the  piazza. 

Besides  that,  there  were  three  large  bodies  of  armed  men : 
five  hundred  hired  soldiers  of  the  Signoria  stationed  before 
the  palace  ;  five  hundred  Compagnacci  under  Dolfo  Spini,  far 
off  on  the .  opposite  side  of  the  piazza ;  and  three  hundred 
armed  citizens  of  another  sort,  under  Marco  Salviati,  Savon¬ 
arola’s  friend,  in  front  of  Orgagna’s  Loggia,  where  the 
Franciscans  and  Dominicans  were  to  be  placed  with  their 
champions. 

Here  had  been  much  expense  of  money  and  labor,  and  high 
dignities  were  concerned.  There  could  be  no  reasonable  doubt 
that  something  great  was  about  to  happen  j  and  it  would  cer* 


158 


ROMOLA. 


tainly  be  a  great  thing  if  the  two  monks  were  simply  burned, 
for  in  that  case  too  God  would  have  spoken,  and  said  very 
plainly  that  Fra  Girolamo  was  not  His  prophet. 

And  there  was  not  much  longer  to  wait,  for  it  was  now  near 
mid-day.  Half  the  monks  were  already  at  their  post,  and 
that  half  of  the  Loggia  that  lies  towards  the  Palace  was  al¬ 
ready  filled  with  gray  mantles  ;  but  the  other  half,  divided  off 
by  boards,  was  still  empty  of  everything  except  a  small  altar. 
The  Franciscans  had  entered  and  taken  their  places  in  silence. 
But  now,  at  the  other  side  of  the  piazza  was  heard  loud  chant¬ 
ing  from  two  hundred  voices,  and  there  was  general  satisfac¬ 
tion,  if  not  in  the  chanting,  at  least  in  the  evidence  that  the 
Dominicans  were  come.  That  loud  chanting  repetition  of  the 
prayer,  “  Let  God  arise,  and  let  His  enemies  be  scattered,” 
was  unpleasantly  suggestive  to  some  impartial  ears  of  a  desire 
to  vaunt  confidence  and  excite  dismay  :  and  so  was  the  flame- 
colored  velvet  cope  in  which  Fra  Domenico  was  arrayed  as  he 
headed  the  procession,  cross  in  hand,  his  simple  mind  really 
exalted  with  faith,  and  with  the  genuine  intention  to  enter  the 
flames  for  the  glory  of  God  and  Fra  Girolamo.  Behind  him 
came  Savonarola  in  the  white  vestment  of  a  priest,  carrying  in 
his  hands  a  vessel  containing  the  consecrated  Host.  He,  too, 
t7as  chanting  loudly ;  he,  too,  looked  firm  and  confident,  and 
as  all  eyes  were  turned  eagerly  on  him,  either  in  anxiety,  cu¬ 
riosity,  or  malignity,  from  the  moment  when  he  entered  the 
piazza  till  he  mounted  the  steps  of  the  Loggia  and  deposited 
the  Sacrament  on  the  altar,  there  was  an  intensifying  flash 
and  energy  in  his  countenance  responding  to  that  scrutiny. 

We  are  so  made,  almost  all  of  us,  that  the  false  seeming 
which  we  have  thought  of  with  painful  shrinking  when  before¬ 
hand  in  our  solitude  it  has  urged  itself  on  us  as  a  necessity, 
will  possess  our  muscles  and  move  our  lips  as  if  nothing  but 
that  were  easy  when  once  we  have  come  under  the  stimulus  of 
expectant  eyes  and  ears.  And  the  strength  of  that  stimulus 
to  Savonarola  can  hardly  be  measured  by  the  experience  of  or¬ 
dinary  lives.  Perhaps  no  man  has  ever  had  a  mighty  influence 
over  his  fellows  without  having  the  innate  need  to  dominate, 
and  this  need  usually  becomes  the  more  imperious  in  propor- 


THE  TEIAL  BY  FIBE. 


159 


tion  as  the  complications  of  life  make  Self  inseparable  from  a 
purpose  which  is  not  selfish.  In  this  way  it  came  to  pass  that 
on  the  day  of  the  Trial  by  Fire,  the  doubleness  which  is  the 
pressing  temptation  in  every  public  career,  whether  of  priest, 
orator,  or  statesman,  was  more  strongly  defined  in  Savonarola’s 
consciousness  as  the  acting  of  a  part,  than  at  any  other  period 
in  his  life.  He  was  struggling  not  against  impending  martyr¬ 
dom,  but  against  impending  ruin. 

Therefore  he  looked  and  acted  as  if  he  were  thoroughly  con¬ 
fident,  when  all  the  while  foreboding  was  pressing  with  leaden 
weight  on  his  heart,  not  only  because  of  the  probable  issues 
of  this  trial,  but  because  of  another  event  already  past  —  an 
event  which  was  spreading  a  sunny  satisfaction  through  the 
mind  of  a  man  who  was  looking  down  at  the  passion-worn 
prophet  from  a  window  of  the  Old  Palace.  It  was  a  common 
turning-point  towards  which  those  widely  sundered  lives  had 
been  converging,  that  two  evenings  ago  the  news  had  come 
that  the  Florentine  courier  of  the  Ten  had  been  arrested  and 
robbed  of  all  his  despatches,  so  that  Savonarola’s  letter  was 
already  in  the  hands  of  the  Duke  of  Milan,  and  would  soon 
be  in  the  hands  of  the  Pope,  not  only  heightening  rage,  but 
giving  a  new  justification  to  extreme  measures.  There  was 
no  malignity  in  Tito  Melema’s  satisfaction  :  it  was  the  mild 
self-gratulation  of  a  man  who  has  won  a  game  that  has  em¬ 
ployed  hypothetic  skill,  not  a  game  that  has  stirred  the  mus¬ 
cles  and  heated  the  blood.  Of  course  that  bundle  of  desires 
and  contrivances  called  human  nature,  when  moulded  into  the 
form  of  a  plain-featured  Frate  Predicatore,  more  or  less  of  an 
impostor,  could  not  be  a  pathetic  object  to  a  brilliant-minded 
scholar  who  understood  everything.  Yet  this  tonsured  Girol¬ 
amo  with  the  high  nose  and  large  under  lip  was  an  immensely 
clever  Frate,  mixing  with  his  absurd  superstitions  or  fabrica¬ 
tions  very  remarkable  notions  about  government :  no  babbler, 
but  a  man  who  could  keep  his  secrets.  Tito  had  no  more 
spite  against  him  than  against  Saint  Dominic.  On  the  con¬ 
trary,  Fra  Girolamo’s  existence  had  been  highly  convenient  to 
Tito  Melema,  furnishing  him  with  that  round  of  the  ladder 
from  which  he  was  about  to  leap  on  to  a  new  and  smooth  foot- 


160 


ROMOLA. 


ing  very  much  to  his  heart’s  content.  And  everything  now 
was  in  forward  preparation  for  that  leap :  let  one  more  sun 
rise  and  set,  and  Tito  hoped  to  quit  Florence,  He  had  been 
so  industrious  that  he  felt  at  full  leisure  to  amuse  himself 
with  to-day’s  comedy,  which  the  thick-headed  Dolfo  Spini 
could  never  have  brought  about  but  for  him. 

Not  yet  did  the  loud  chanting  cease,  but  rather  swelled  to  a 
deafening  roar,  being  taken  up  in  all  parts  of  the  piazza  by 
the  Piagnoni,  who  carried  their  little  red  crosses  as  a  badge, 
and,  most  of  them,  chanted  the  prayer  for  the  confusion  of 
God’s  enemies  with  the  expectation  of  an  answer  to  be  given 
through  the  medium  of  a  more  signal  personage  than  Fra  Do¬ 
menico.  This  good  Frate  in  his  flame-colored  cope  was  now 
kneeling  before  the  little  altar  on  which  the  Sacrament  was 
deposited,  awaiting  his  summons. 

On  the  Franciscan  side  of  the  Loggia  there  was  no  chanting 
and  no  flame-color  :  only  silence  and  grayness.  But  there  was 
this  counterbalancing  difference,  that  the  Franciscans  had  two 
champions  :  a  certain  Fra  Giuliano  was  to  pair  with  Fra  Do¬ 
menico,  while  the  original  champion.  Fra  Francesco,  confined 
his  challenge  to  Savonarola. 

“  Surely,”  thought  the  men  perched  uneasily  on  the  rods 
and  pillars,  “  all  must  be  ready  now.  This  chanting  might 
stop,  and  we  should  see  better  when  the  Frati  are  moving 
towards  the  platform.” 

But  the  Frati  were  not  to  be  seen  moving  yet.  Pale  Fran¬ 
ciscan  faces  were  looking  uneasily  over  the  boarding  at  that 
flame-colored  cope.  It  had  an  evil  look  and  might  be  en¬ 
chanted,  so  that  a  false  miracle  w'ould  be  wrought  by  magic. 
Your  monk  may  come  whole  out  of  the  fire,  and  yet  it  may  be 
the  work  of  the  devil. 

And  now  there  was  passing  to  and  fro  between  the  Loggia 
and  the  marble  terrace  of  the  Palazzo,  and  the  roar  of  chant¬ 
ing  became  a  little  quieter,  for  every  one  at  a  distance  was 
beginning  to  watch  more  eagerly  But  it  soon  appeared  that 
the  new  movement  was  not  a  beginning,  but  an  obstacle  to 
beginning.  The  dignified  Florentines  appointed  to  preside 
over  this  affair  as  moderators  on  each  side,  went  in  and  out 


THE  TRIAL  BY  FIRE, 


161 


of  the  Palace,  and  there  was  much  debate  with  the  Francis¬ 
cans.  But  at  last  it  was  clear  that  Fra  Domenico,  conspicu¬ 
ous  in  his  flame-color,  was  being  fetched  towards  the  Palace 
Probably  the  fire  had  already  been  kindled — it  was  difiicult  to 
see  at  a  distance  —  and  the  miracle  was  going  to  begin. 

Not  at  all.  The  flame-colored  cope  disappeared  within  the 
Palace ;  then  another  Dominican  was  fetched  away ;  and  for 
a  long  while  everything  went  on  as  before  —  the  tiresome 
chanting,  which  was  not  miraculous,  and  Fra  Girolamo  in  his 
white  vestment  standing  just  in  the  same  place.  But  at  last 
something  hapj)ened:  Fra  Domenico  was  seen  coming  out 
of  the  Palace  again,  and  returning  to  his  brethren.  He  had 
changed  all  his  clothes  with  a  brother  monk,  but  he  was 
guarded  on  each  flank  by  a  Franciscan,  lest  coming  into  the 
vicinity  of  Savonarola  he  should  be  enchanted  again. 

“  Ah,  then,”  thought  the  distant  spectators,  a  little  less  con¬ 
scious  of  cramped  limbs  and  hunger,  “Fra  Domenico  is  not 
going  to  enter  the  fire.  It  is  Fra  Girolamo  who  offers  himself 
after  all.  We  shall  see  him  move  presently,  and  if  he  comes 
out  of  the  flames  we  shall  have  a  fine  view  of  him  !  ” 

But  Fra  Girolamo  did  not  move,  except  with  the  ordinary 
action  accompanying  speech.  The  speech  was  bold  and  firm, 
perhaps  somewhat  ironically  remonstrant,  like  that  of  Elijah 
to  the  priests  of  Baal,  demanding  the  cessation  of  these  trivial 
delays.  But  speech  is  the  i^ost  irritating  kind  of  argument 
for  those  who  are  out  of  hearing,  cramped  in  the  limbs,  and 
empty  in  the  stomach.  And  what  need  was  there  for  speech? 
If  the  miracle  did  not  begin,  it  could  be  no  one’s  fault  but  Fra 
Girolamo’s,  who  might  put  an  end  to  all  difficulties  by  offer¬ 
ing  himself  now  the  fire  was  ready,  as  he  had  been  forward 
enough  to  do  when  there  was  no  fuel  in  sight. 

More  movement  to  and  fro,  more  discussion ;  and  the  after¬ 
noon  seemed  to  be  slipping  away  all  the  faster  because  the 
clouds  had  gathered,  and  changed  the  light  on  everything, 
and  sent  a  chill  through  the  spectators,  hungry  in  mind  and 
body. 

Now  it  was  the  crucifix  which  Fra  Domenico  wanted  to 
carry  into  the  fire  and  must  not  be  allowed  to  profane  in  that 


162 


KOMOLA. 


manner.  After  some  little  resistance  Savonarola  gave  waj 
to  this  objection,  and  thus  had  the  advantage  of  making  one 
more  concession ;  but  he  immediately  placed  in  Fra  Domenico’s 
hands  the  vessel  containing  the  consecrated  Host.  The  idea 
that  the  presence  of  the  sacred  Mystery  might  in  the  worst 
extremity  avert  the  ordinary  effects  of  fire  hovered  in  his 
mind  as  a  possibility ;  but  the  issue  on  which  he  counted 
was  of  a  more  positive  kind.  In  taking  up  the  Host  he  said 
quietly,  as  if  he  were  only  doing  what  had  been  presupposed 
from  the  first  — 

“  Since  they  are  not  willing  that  you  should  enter  with  the 
crucifix,  my  brother,  enter  simply  with  the  Sacrament.” 

New  horror  in  the  Franciscans;  new  firmness  in  Savonarola. 
“  It  was  impious  presumption  to  carry  the  Sacrament  into  the 
fire :  if  it  were  burned  the  scandal  would  be  great  in  the  minds 
of  the  weak  and  ignorant.”  “Not  at  all:  even  if  it  were 
burned,  the  Accidents  only  would  be  consumed,  the  Substance 
would  remain.”  Here  was  a  question  that  might  be  argued 
till  set  of  sun  and  remain  as  elastic  as  ever ;  and  no  one  could 
propose  settling  it  by  proceeding  to  the  trial,  since  it  was  es¬ 
sentially  a  preliminary  question.  It  was  only  necessary  that 
both  sides  should  remain  firm  —  that  the  Franciscans  should 
persist  in  not  permitting  the  Host  to  be  carried  into  the  fire, 
and  that  Fra  Domenico  should  persist  in  refusing  to  enter 
without  it. 

Meanwhile  the  clouds  were  getting  darker,  the  air  chiller. 
Even  the  chanting  was  missed  how  it  had  given  way  to  in¬ 
audible  argument ;  and  the  confused  sounds  of  talk  from  all 
points  of  the  piazza,  showing  that  expectation  was  every¬ 
where  relaxing,  contributed  to  the  irritating  presentiment 
that  nothing  decisive  would  be  done.  Here  and  there  a  drop¬ 
ping  shout  was  heard ;  then,  more  frequent  shouts  in  a  rising 
scale  of  scorn. 

“Light  the  fire  and  drive  them  in  !  ”  “Let  us  have  a  smell 
of  roast  —  we  want  our  dinner !  ”  “  Come,  Prophet,  let  us 

know  whether  anything  is  to  happen  before  the  twenty-four 
hours  are  over !  ”  “  Yes,  yes,  what ’s  your  last  vision  ?  ”  “  Oh, 

he ’s  got  a  dozen  in  his  inside ;  they  ’re  the  small  change  for 


THE  TRIAL  BY  FIRE.  163 

a  miracle!”  Frate,  where  are  you?  Nerer  mind  wast¬ 

ing  the  fuel !  ” 

Still  the  same  movement  to  and  fro  between  the  Loggia  and 
the  Palace ;  still  the  same  debate,  slow  and  unintelligible  to 
the  multitude  as  the  colloquies  of  insects  that  touch  antennae 
to  no  other  apparent  effect  than  that  of  going  and  coming. 
But  an  interpretation  was  not  long  wanting  to  unheard  de¬ 
bates  in  which  Fra  Girolamo  was  constantly  a  speaker:  it  was 
he  who  was  hindering  the  trial ;  everybody  was  appealing  to 
him  now,  and  he  was  hanging  back. 

Soon  the  shouts  ceased  to  be  distinguishable,  and  were  lost 
in  an  uproar  not  simply  of  voices,  but  of  clashing  metal  and 
trampling  feet.  The  suggestions  of  the  irritated  people  had 
stimulated  old  impulses  in  Dolfo  Spini  and  his  band  of  Com- 
pagnacci ;  it  seemed  an  opportunity  not  to  be  lost  for  putting 
an  end  to  Florentine  difficulties  by  getting  possession  of  the 
arch-hypocrite’s  person ;  and  there  was  a  vigorous  rush  of  the 
armed  men  towards  the  Loggia,  thrusting  the  people  aside,  or 
driving  them  on  to  the  file  of  soldiery  stationed  in  front  of 
the  Palace.  At  this  movement,  everything  was  suspended  both 
with  monks  and  embarrassed  magistrates  except  the  palpitat¬ 
ing  watch  to  see  what  would  come  of  the  struggle. 

But  the  Loggia  was  well  guarded  by  the  band  under  the 
brave  Salviati ;  the  soldiers  of  the  Signoria  assisted  in  the 
repulse ;  and  the  trampling  and  rushing  were  all  backward 
again  towards  the  Tetto  de’  Pisani,  when  the  blackness  of 
the  heavens  seemed  to  intensify  in  this  moment  of  utter  con¬ 
fusion  ;  and  the  rain,  which  had  already  been  felt  in  scattered 
drops,  began  to  fall  with  rapidly  growing  violence,  wetting 
the  fuel,  and  running  in  streams  off  the  platform,  wetting 
the  weary  hungry  people  to  the  skin,  and  driving  every 
man’s  disgust  and  rage  inwards  to  ferment  there  in  the  damp 
darkness. 

Everybody  knew  now  that  the  Trial  by  Fire  was  not  to  hap¬ 
pen.  The  Signoria  was  doubtless  glad  of  the  rain,  as  an  ob¬ 
vious  reason,  better  than  any  pretext,  for  declaring  that  both 
]iarties  might  go  home.  It  was  the  issue  which  Savonarola 
had  expected  and  desired  ;  yet  it  would  be  an  ill  description 


164 


ROMOLA. 


of  what  he  felt  to  say  that  he  was  glad.  As  that  rain  fell, 
and  plashed  on  the  edge  of  the  Loggia,  and  sent  spray  over 
the  altar  and  all  garments  and  faces,  the  Frate  knew  that  the 
demand  for  him  to  enter  the  fire  was  at  an  end.  But  he  knew 
too,  with  a  certainty  as  irresistible  as  the  damp  chill  that  had 
taken  possession  of  his  frame,  that  the  design  of  his  enemies 
was  fulfilled,  and  that  his  honor  was  not  saved.  He  knew 
that  he  should  have  to  make  his  way  to  San  Marco  again 
through  the  enraged  crowd,  and  that  the  hearts  of  many  friends 
who  would  once  have  defended  him  with  their  lives  would 
now  be  turned  against  him. 

When  the  rain  had  ceased  he  asked  for  a  guard  from  the 
Signoria,  and  it  was  given  him.  Had  he  said  that  he  was 
willing  to  die  for  the  work  of  his  life  ?  Yes,  and  he  had  not 
spoken  falsely.  But  to  die  in  dishonor  —  held  up  to  scorn  as 
a  hypocrite  and  a  false  prophet  ?  ‘‘0  God  !  that  is  not  mar¬ 

tyrdom  !  It  is  the  blotting  out  of  a  life  that  has  been  a  pro¬ 
test  against  wrong.  Let  me  die  because  of  the  worth  that'  is 
in  me,  not  because  of  my  weakness.” 

The  rain  had  ceased,  and  the  light  from  the  breaking  clouds 
fell  on  Savonarola  as  he  left  the  Loggia  in  the  midst  of  his 
guard,  walking  as  he  had  come,  with  the  Sacrament  in  his 
hand.  But  there  seemed  no  glory  in  the  light  that  fell  on  him 
now,  no  smile  of  heaven  :  it  was  only  that  light  which  shines 
on,  patiently  and  impartially,  justifying  or  condemning  by 
simply  showing  all  things  in  the  slow  history  of  their  ripen¬ 
ing.  He  heard  no  blessing,  no  tones  of  pity,  but  only  taunts 
and  threats.  He  knew  this  was  a  foretaste  of  coming  bitter¬ 
ness  ;  yet  his  courage  mounted  under  all  moral  attack,  and  he 
showed  no  sign  of  dismay. 

“Well  parried,  Frate  !  ”  said  Tito,  as  Savonarola  descended 
the  steps  of  the  Loggia.  “  But  I  fear  your  career  at  Florence 
is  ended.  What  say  you,  my  Niccolo  ?  ” 

“  It  is  a  pity  his  falsehoods  were  not  all  of  a  wise  sort,”  said 
Macchiavelli,  with  a  melancholy  shrug.  “  With  the  times  so 
much  on  his  side  as  they  are  about  Church  affairs,  he  might 
have  done  something  great.” 


A  MASQUE  OF  THE  FURIES. 


165 


CHAPTER  LXVL 

A  MASQUE  OE  THE  FURIES. 

The  next  day  was  Palm  Sunday,  or  Olive  Sunday,  as  it  was 
chiefly  called  in  the  olive-growing  Valdarno  ;  and  the  morning 
sun  shone  with  a  more  delicious  clearness  for  the  yesterday’s 
rain.  Once  more  Savonarola  mounted  the  pulpit  in  San 
Marco,  and  saw  a  flock  around  him  whose  faith  in  him  was 
still  unshaken  ;  and  this  morning  in  calm  and  sad  sincerity  he 
declared  himself  ready  to  die  :  in  front  of  all  visions  he  saw 
his  own  doom.  Once  more  he  uttered  the  benediction,  and 
saw  the  faces  of  men  and  women  lifted  towards  him  in  vener¬ 
ating  love.  Then  he  descended  the  steps  of  the  pulpit  and 
turned  away  from  that  sight  forever. 

For  before  the  sun  had  set  Florence  was  in  an  uproar.  The 
passions  which  had  been  roused  the  day  before  had  been  smoul¬ 
dering  through  that  quiet  morning,  and  had  now  burst  out 
again  with  a  fury  not  unassisted  by  design,  and  not  without 
official  connivance.  The  uproar  had  begun  at  the  Duomo  in 
an  attempt  of  some  Compagnacci  to  hinder  the  evening  ser¬ 
mon,  which  the  Piagnoni  had  assembled  to  hear.  But  no 
sooner  had  men’s  blood  mounted  and  the  disturbances  had 
become  an  affray  than  the  cry  arose,  “  To  San  Marco  !  the  fire 
to  San  Marco  !  ” 

And  long  before  the  daylight  had  died,  both  the  church  and 
convent  were  being  besieged  by  an  enraged  and  continually 
increasing  multitude.  Not  without  resistance.  For  the  monks, 
long  conscious  of  growing  hostility  without,  had  arms  within 
their  walls,  and  some  of  them  fought  as  vigorously  in  their 
long  white  tunics  as  if  they  had  been  Knights  Templars. 
Even  the  command  of  Savonarola  could  not  prevail  against 
the  impulse  to  self-defence  in  arms  that  were  still  muscular 
under  the  Dominican  serge.  There  w'ere  laymen  too  who  had 
not  chosen  to  depart,  and  some  of  them  fought  fiercely  :  there 


166 


ROMOLA. 


was  firing  from  the  high  altar  close  by  the  great  crucifix,  there 
was  pouring  of  stones  and  hot  embers  from  the  convent  roof, 
there  was  close  fighting  with  swords  in  the  cloisters.  Not¬ 
withstanding  the  force  of  the  assailants,  the  attack  lasted  till 
deep  night. 

The  demonstrations  of  the  Government  had  all  been  against 
the  convent ;  early  in  the  attack  guards  had  been  sent  for,  not 
to  disperse  the  assailants,  but  to  command  all  within  the  con¬ 
vent  to  lay  down  their  arms,  all  laymen  to  depart  from  it,  and 
Savonarola  himself  to  quit  the  Florentine  territory  within 
twelve  hours.  Had  Savonarola  quitted  the  convent  then,  he 
could  hardly  have  escaped  being  torn  to  pieces  ;  he  was  will¬ 
ing  to  go,  but  his  friends  hindered  him.  It  was  felt  to  be  a 
great  risk  even  for  some  laymen  of  high  name  to  depart  by 
the  garden  wall,  but  among  those  who  had  chosen  to  do  so  was 
Francesco  Valori,  who  hoped  to  raise  rescue  from  without. 

And  now  when  it  was  deep  night — when  the  struggle  could 
hardly  have  lasted  much  longer,  and  the  Compagnacci  might 
soon  have  carried  their  swords  into  the  library,  where  Savona¬ 
rola  was  praying  with  the  Brethren  who  had  either  not  taken 
up  arms  or  had  laid  them  down  at  his  command  —  there  came 
a  second  body  of  guards,  commissioned  by  the  Signoria  to 
demand  the  persons  of  Fra  Girolamo  and  his  two  coadjutors. 
Fra  Domenico  and  Fra  Salvestro. 

Loud  was  the  roar  of  triumphant  hate  when  the  light  of 
lanterns  showed  the  Frate  issuing  from  the  door  of  the  con¬ 
vent  with  a  guard  who  promised  him  no  other  safety  than  that 
of  the  prison.  The  struggle  now  was,  who  should  get  first 
in  the  stream  that  rushed  up  the  narrow  street  to  see  the 
Prophet  carried  back  in  ignominy  to  the  piazza  where  he  had 
braved  it  yesterday  —  who  should  be  in  the  best  place  for 
reaching  his  ear  with  insult,  nay,  if  possible,  for  smiting  him 
and  kicking  him.  This  was  not  difficult  for  some  of  the  armed 
Compagnacci  who  were  not  prevented  from  mixing  themselves 
with  the  guards. 

When  Savonarola  felt  himself  dragged  and  pushed  along  in 
the  midst  of  that  hooting  multitude;  when  lanterns  were 
lifted  to  show  him  deriding  faces ;  when  he  felt  himself  spit 


A  MASQUE  OF  THE  FUEIES. 


1G7 


upon,  smitten  and  kicked  with  grossest  words  of  insult,  it 
seemed  to  him  that  the  worst  bitterness  of  life  was  past.  If 
men  judged  him  guilty,  and  were  bent  on  having  his  blood,  it 
was  only  death  that  awaited  him.  But  the  worst  drop  of  bitter¬ 
ness  can  never  be  wrung  on  to  our  lips  from  without:  the 
lowest  depth  of  resignation  is  not  to  be  found  in  martyrdom ; 
it  is  only  to  be  found  when  we  have  covered  our  heads  in 
silence  and  felt,  ‘‘  I  am  not  worthy  to  be  a  martyr ;  the  Truth 
shall  prosper,  but  not  by  me.” 

But  that  brief  imperfect  triumph  of  insulting  the  Frate, 
who  had  soon  disappeared  under  the  doorway  of  the  Old 
Palace,  was  only  like  the  taste  of  blood  to  the  tiger.  Were 
there  not  the  houses  of  the  hypocrite’s  friends  to  be  sacked  ? 
Already  one-half  of  the  armed  multitude,  too  much  in  the  rear 
to  share  greatly  in  the  siege  of  the  convent,  had  been  em¬ 
ployed  in  the  more  profitable  work  of  attacking  rich  houses, 
not  with  planless  desire  for  plunder,  but  with  that  discrimi¬ 
nating  selection  of  such  as  belonged  to  chief  Piagnoni,  which 
showed  that  the  riot  was  under  guidance,  and  that  the  rabble 
with  clubs  and  staves  was  well  officered  by  sword-girt  Com- 
pagnacci.  Was  there  not  —  next  criminal  after  the  Frate  — 
the  ambitious  Francesco  Valori,  suspected  of  wanting  with  the 
Frate’s  help  to  make  himself  a  Doge  or  Gonfaloniere  for  life  ? 
And  the  gray-haired  man  who,  eight  months  ago,  had  lifted 
his  arm  and  his  voice  in  such  ferocious  demand  for  justice  on 
five  of  his  fellow-citizens,  only  escaped  from  San  Marco  to 
experience  what  others  called  justice  —  to  see  his  house  sur¬ 
rounded  by  an  angry,  greedy  multitude,  to  see  his  wife  shot 
dead  with  an  arrow,  and  to  be  himself  murdered,  as  he  was 
on  his  way  to  answer  a  summons  to  the  Palazzo,  by  the  swords 
of  men  named  Bidolfi  and  Tornabuoni. 

In  this  way  that  Masque  of  the  Furies,  called  Eiot,  was 
played  on  in  Florence  through  the  hours  of  night  and  early 
morning. 

But  the  chief  director  was  not  visible :  he  had  his  reasons 
for  issuing  his  orders  from  a  private  retreat,  being  of  rather 
tco  high  a  name  to  let  his  red  feather  be  seen  waving  among 
all  the  work  that  was  to  be  done  before  the  dawn.  The 


168 


ROMOLA. 


retreat  was  the  same  house  and  the  same  room  in  a  quiet 
street  between  Santa  Croce  and  San  Marco,  where  we  have 
seen  Tito  paying  a  secret  visit  to  Dolfo  Spini.  Here  the 
Captain  of  the  Compagnacci  sat  through  this  memorable  night, 
receiving  visitors  who  came  and  went,  and  went  and  came, 
some  of  them  in  the  guise  of  armed  Compagnacci,  others 
dressed  obscurely  and  without  visible  arms.  There  was  abun¬ 
dant  wine  on  the  table,  with  drinking-cups  for  chance  comers ; 
and  though  Spini  was  on  his  guard  against  excessive  drinking, 
he  took  enough  from  time  to  time  to  heighten  the  excite¬ 
ment  produced  by  the  news  that  was  being  brought  to  him 
continually. 

Among  the  obscurely  dressed  visitors  Ser  Ceccone  was  one 
of  the  most  frequent,  and  as  the  hours  advanced  towards  the 
morning  twilight  he  had  remained  as  Spini’s  constant  com¬ 
panion,  together  with  Francesco  Cei,  who  was  then  in  rather 
careless  hiding  in  Florence,  expecting  to  have  his  banishment 
revoked  when  the  Frate’s  fall  had  been  accomplished. 

The  tapers  had  burnt  themselves  into  low  shapeless  masses, 
and  holes  in  the  shutters  were  just  marked  by  a  sombre  out¬ 
ward  light,  when  Spini,  who  had  started  from  his  seat  and 
walked  up  and  down  with  an  angry  flush  on  his  face  at  some 
talk  that  had  been  going  forward  with  those  two  unmilitary 
companions,  burst  out  — 

“  The  devil  spit  him  !  he  shall  pay  for  it,  though.  Ha,  ha  ! 
the  claws  shall  be  down  on  him  when  he  little  thinks  of  them. 
So  he  was  to  be  the  great  man  after  all !  He ’s  been  pretend¬ 
ing  to  chuck  everything  towards  my  cap,  as  if  I  were  a  blind 
beggarman,  and  all  the  while  he ’s  been  winking  and  filling  his 
own  scarsella.  I  should  like  to  hang  skins  about  him  and  set 
my  hounds  on  him  !  And  he ’s  got  that  fine  ruby  of  mine,  I 
was  fool  enough  to  give  him  yesterday.  Malediction !  And 
he  was  laughing  at  me  in  his  sleeve  two  years  ago,  and  spoil¬ 
ing  the  best  plan  that  ever  was  laid.  I  was  a  fool  for  trusting 
myself  with  a  rascal  who  had  long-twisted  contrivances  that 
nobody  could  see  to  the  end  of  but  himself.” 

“  A  Greek,  too,  who  dropped  into  Florence  with  gems 
packed  about  him,”  said  Francesco  Cei,  who  had  a  slight 


WAITING  BY  THE  RIVER.  1(^0 

smile  of  amusement  on  his  face  at  Spini’s  fuming.  “You  did 
not  choose  your  confidant  very  wisely,  my  Dolfo.” 

“  He ’s  a  cursed  deal  cleverer  than  you,  Francesco,  and 
handsomer  too/’  said  Spini,  turning  on  his  associate  with  a 
general  desire  to  worry  anything  that  presented  itself. 

“  I  humbly  conceive,”  said  Ser  Ceccone,  “  that  Messer 
Francesco’s  poetic  genius  will  outweigh  —  ” 

“  Yes,  yes,  rub  your  hands !  I  hate  that  notary’s  trick  of 
yours,”  interrupted  Spini,  whose  patronage  consisted  largely 
in  this  sort  of  frankness.  “  But  there  comes  Taddeo,  or  some¬ 
body  :  now ’s  the  time !  What  news,  eh  ?  ”  he  went  on,  as 
two  Compagnacci  entered  with  heated  looks. 

“  Bad  !  ”  said  one.  “  The  people  have  made  up  their  minds 
they  were  going  to  have  the  sacking  of  Soderini’s  house,  and 
now  they  have  been  balked  we  shall  have  them  turning  on  us, 
if  we  don’t  take  care,  I  suspect  there  are  some  Mediceans 
buzzing  about  among  them,  and  we  may  see  them  attacking 
your  palace  over  the  bridge  before  long,  unless  we  can  find  a 
bait  for  them  another  way.” 

“  I  have  it !  ”  said  Spini,  and  seizing  Taddeo  by  the  belt  he 
drew  him  aside  to  give  him  directions,  while  the  other  went 
on  telling  Cei  how  the  Signoria  had  interfered  about  Soderini’s 
house. 

“  Ecco !  ”  exclaimed  Spini,  presently,  giving  Taddeo  a  slight 
push  towards  the  door.  “  Go,  and  make  quick  work.” 


CHAPTER  LXVII. 

WAITING  BY  THE  KIVEB. 

About  the  time  when  the  two  Compagnacci  went  on  their 
errand,  there  was  another  man  who,  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  Arno,  was  also  going  out  into  the  chill  gray  twilight. 
His  errand,  apparently,  could  have  no  relation  to  theirs  ;  he 
was  making  his  way  to  the  brink  of  the  river  at  a  spot  which, 


170 


ROMOLA. 


though  -within  the  city  walls,  was  overlooked  by  no  dwellings, 
and  which  only  seemed  the  more  shrouded  and  lonely  for  the 
warehouses  and  granaries  which  at  some  little  distance  back¬ 
ward  turned  their  shoulders  to  the  river.  There  was  a  slop¬ 
ing  width  of  long  grass  and  rushes  made  all  the  more  dank  by 
broad  gutters  which  here  and  there  emptied  themselves  into 
the  Arno. 

The  gutters  and  the  loneliness  were  the  attraction  that 
drew  this  man  to  come  and  sit  down  among  the  grass,  and 
bend  over  the  waters  that  ran  swiftly  in  the  channelled  slope 
at  his  side.  For  he  had  once  had  a  large  piece  of  bread 
brought  to  him  by  one  of  those  friendly  runlets,  and  more 
than  once  a  raw  carrot  and  apple-parings.  It  was  worth 
while  to  wait  for  such  chances  in  a  place  where  there  was  no 
one  to  see,  and  often  in  his  restless  wakefulness  he  came  to 
watch  here  before  daybreak ;  it  might  save  him  for  one  day 
the  need  of  that  silent  begging  which  consisted  in  sitting 
on  a  church-step  by  the  wayside  out  beyond  the  Porta  San 
Frediano. 

For  Baldassarre  hated  begging  so  much  that  he  would  per¬ 
haps  have  chosen  to  die  rather  than  make  even  that  silent 
appeal,  but  for  one  reason  that  made  him  desire  to  live.  It 
was  no  longer  a  hope  ;  it  was  only  that  possibility  which 
clings  to  every  idea  that  has  taken  complete  possession  of  the 
mind :  the  sort  of  possibility  that  makes  a  woman  watch  on 
a  headland  for  the  ship  which  held  something  dear,  though 
all  her  neighbors  are  certain  that  the  ship  was  a  wreck  long 
years  ago.  After  he  had  come  out  of  the  convent  hospital, 
where  the  monks  of  San  Miniato  had  taken  care  of  him  as 
long  as  he  was  helpless  ;  after  he  had  watched  in  vain  for  the 
Wife  who  was  to  help  him,  and  had  begun  to  think  that  she 
was  dead  of  the  pestilence  that  seemed  to  fill  all  the  space 
since  the  night  he  parted  from  her,  he  had  been  unable  to 
conceive  any  way  in  which  sacred  vengeance  could  satisfy 
itself  through  his  arm.  His  knife  was  gone,  and  he  was  too 
feeble  in  body  to  win  another  by  work,  too  feeble  in  mind, 
even  if  he  had  had  the  knife,  to  contrive  that  it  should  serve 
its  one  purpose.  He  was  a  shattered,  bewildered,  lonely  old 


WAITING  BY  THE  RIVER. 


i7i 

man ;  yet  he  desired  to  live  :  he  waited  for  something  of 
which  he  had  no  distinct  vision  —  something  dim,  formless  — 
that  startled  him,  and  made  strong  pulsations  within  him, 
like  that  unknown  thing  which  we  look  for  when  we  start 
from  sleep,  though  no  voice  or  touch  has  waked  us.  Baldas- 
sarre  desired  to  live ;  and  therefore  he  crept  out  in  the  gray 
light,  and  seated  himself  in  the  long  grass,  and  watched  the 
waters  that  had  a  faint  promise  in  them. 

Meanwhile  the  Compagnacci  were  busy  at  their  work.  The 
formidable  bands  of  armed  men,  left  to  do  their  will  with 
very  little  interference  from  an  embarrassed  if  not  conniving 
Signoria,  had  parted  into  two  masses,  but  both  were  soon 
making  their  way  by  different  roads  towards  the  Arno.  The 
smaller  mass  was  making  for  the  Ponte  Rubaconte,  the  larger 
for  the  Ponte  Vecchio;  but  in  both  the  same  words  had 
passed  from  mouth  to  mouth  as  a  signal,  and  almost  every 
man  of  the  multitude  knew  that  he  was  going  to  the  Via  de’ 
Bardi  to  sack  a  house  there.  If  he  knew  no  other  reason, 
could  he  demand  a  better  ? 

The  armed  Compagnacci  knew  something  more,  for  a  brief 
word  of  command  flies  quickly,  and  the  leaders  of  the  two 
streams  of  rabble  had  a  perfect  understanding  that  they  would 
meet  before  a  certain  house  a  little  towards  the  eastern  end 
of  the  Via  de’  Bardi,  where  the  master  would  probably  be  in 
bed,  and  be  surprised  in  his  morning  sleep. 

But  the  master  of  that  house  was  neither  sleeping  nor  in 
bed  ;  he  had  not  been  in  bed  that  night.  For  Tito’s  anxiety 
to  quit  Florence  had  been  stimulated  by  the  events  of  the 
previous  day  :  investigations  would  follow  in  which  appeals 
might  be  made  to  him  delaying  his  departure  :  and  in  all 
delay  he  had  an  uneasy  sense  that  there  was  danger.  False¬ 
hood  had  prospered  and  waxed  strong ;  but  it  had  nourished 
the  twin  life.  Fear.  He  no  longer  wore  his  armor,  he  was  no 
longer  afraid  of  Baldassarre ;  but  from  the  corpse  of  that  dead 
fear  a  spirit  had  risen  —  the  undying  habit  of  fear.  He  felt 
he  should  not  be  safe  till  he  was  out  of  this  fierce,  turbid 
Florence  ;  and  now  he  was  ready  to  go.  Maso  was  to  deliver 
up  his  house  to  the  new  tenant ;  his  horses  and  mules  were 


172 


ROMOLA. 


awaiting  him  in  San  Gallo ;  Tessa  and  the  children  had  been 
lodged  for  the  night  in  the  Borgo  outside  the  gate,  and  would 
be  dressed  in  readiness  to  mount  the  mules  and  join  him. 
He  descended  the  stone  steps  into  the  courtyard,  he  passed 
through  the  great  doorway,  not  the  same  Tito,  but  nearly  as 
brilliant  as  on  the  day  when  he  had  first  entered  that  house 
and  made  the  mistake  of  falling  in  love  with  Bomola.  The 
mistake  was  remedied  now :  the  old  life  was  cast  off,  and  was 
soon  to  be  far  behind  him. 

He  turned  with  rapid  steps  towards  the  Piazza  dei  Mozzi, 
intending  to  pass  over  the  Ponte  Eubaconte  ;  but  as  he  went 
along  certain  sounds  came  upon  his  ears  that  made  him  turn 
round  and  walk  yet  more  quickly  in  the  opposite  direction. 
Was  the  mob  coming  into  Oltrarno  ?  It  was  a  vexation,  for 
he  would  have  preferred  the  more  private  road.  He  must 
now  go  by  the  Ponte  Vecchio ;  and  unpleasant  sensations 
made  him  draw  his  mantle  close  round  him,  and  walk  at  his 
utmost  speed.  There  was  no  one  to  see  him  in  that  gray 
twilight.  But  before  he  reached  the  end  of  the  Via  de’  Bardi, 
like  sounds  fell  on  his  ear  again,  and  this  time  they  were 
much  louder  and  nearer.  Could  he  have  been  deceived  before  ? 
The  mob  must  be  coming  over  the  Ponte  Vecchio.  Again  he 
turned,  from  an  impulse  of  fear  that  was  stronger  than 
reflection  ;  but  it  was  only  to  be  assured  that  the  mob  was 
actually  entering  the  street  from  the  opposite  end.  He  chose 
not  to  go  back  to  his  house :  after  all  they  would  not  attack 
Atm.  Still,  he  had  some  valuables  about  him ;  and  all  things 
except  reason  and  order  are  possible  with  a  mob.  But  neces¬ 
sity  does  the  work  of  courage.  He  went  on  towards  the 
Ponte  Vecchio,  the  rush  and  the  trampling  and  the  confused 
voices  getting  so  loud  before  him  that  he  had  ceased  to  hear 
them  behind. 

For  he  had  reached  the  end  of  the  street,  and  the  crowd 
pouring  from  the  bridge  met  him  at  the  turning  and  hemmed 
in  his  way.  He  had  not  time  to  wonder  at  a  sudden  shout 
before  he  felt  himself  surrounded,  not,  in  the  first  instance, 
by  an  unarmed  rabble,  but  by  armed  Compagnacci ;  the  next 
sensation  was  that  his  cap  fell  off,  and  that  he  was  thrust 


WAITING  BY  THE  RIVER. 


173 


violently  forward  among  the  rabble,  along  the  narrow  passage 
of  the  bridge.  Then  he  distinguished  the  shouts,  “  Piagnone ! 
Medicean  !  Piagnone  !  Throw  him  over  the  bridge  !  ” 

His  mantle  was  being  torn  off  him  with  strong  pulls  that 
would  have  throttled  him  if  the  fibula  had  not  given  way. 
Then  his  scarsella  was  snatched  at ;  but  all  the  while  he  was 
being  hustled  and  dragged;  and  the  snatch  failed  —  his  scar¬ 
sella  still  hung  at  his  side.  Shouting,  yelling,  half  motive¬ 
less  execration  rang  stunningly  in  his  ears,  spreading  even 
among  those  who  had  not  yet  seen  him,  and  only  knew  there 
was  a  man  to  be  reviled.  Tito’s  horrible  dread  was  that  he 
should  be  struck  down  or  trampled  on  before  he  reached 
the  open  arches  that  surmount  the  centre  of  the  bridge. 
There  was  one  hope  for  him,  that  they  might  throw  him  over 
before  they  had  wounded  him  or  beaten  the  strength  out  of 
him  ;  and  his  whole  soul  was  absorbed  in  that  one  hope  and 
its  obverse  terror. 

Yes  —  they  were  at  the  arches.  In  that  moment  Tito,  with 
bloodless  face  and  eyes  dilated,  had  one  of  the  self-preserving 
inspirations  that  come  in  extremity.  With  a  sudden  desperate 
effort  he  mastered  the  clasp  of  his  belt,  and  flung  belt  and 
scarsella  forward  towards  a  yard  of  clear  space  against  the 
parapet,  crying  in  a  ringing  voice  — 

There  are  diamonds  !  there  is  gold  !  ” 

In  the  instant  the  hold  on  him  was  relaxed,  and  there  was  a 
rush  towards  the  scarsella.  He  threw  himself  on  the  parapet 
with  a  desperate  leap,  and  the  next  moment  plunged  — 
plunged  with  a  great  plash  into  the  dark  river  far  below. 

It  was  his  chance  of  salvation  ;  and  it  was  a  good  chance. 
His  life  had  been  saved  once  before  by  his  fine  swimming,  and 
as  he  rose  to  the  surface  again  cfter  his  long  dive  he  had  a 
sense  of  deliverance.  He  struck  out  with  all  the  energy  of 
his  strong  prime,  and  the  current  helped  him.  If  he  could 
only  swim  beyond  the  Ponte  alia  Carrara  he  might  land  in  a 
remote  part  of  the  city,  and  even  yet  reach  San  Gallo.  Life 
was  still  before  him.  And  the  idiot  mob,  shouting  and  bellow¬ 
ing  on  the  bridge  there,  would  think  he  was  drowned. 

They  did  think  so.  Peering  over  the  parapet  along  the 


174 


ROMOLA. 


dark  stream,  tliey  could  not  see  afar  off  the  moving  blackness 
of  the  floating  hair,  and  the  velvet  tunic-sleeves. 

It  was  only  from  the  other  way  that  a  pale  olive  face  could 
be  seen  looking  white  above  the  dark  water ;  a  face  not  easy 
even  for  the  indifferent  to  forget,  with  its  square  forehead, 
the  long  low  arch  of  the  eyebrows,  and  the  long  lustrous 
agate-like  eyes.  Onward  the  face  went  on  the  dark  current, 
with  inflated  quivering  nostrils,  with  the  blue  veins  distended 
on  the  temples.  One  bridge  was  passed  —  the  bridge  of  Santa 
Trinita.  Should  he  risk  landing  now  rather  than  trust  to  his 
strength  ?  No.  He  heard,  or  fancied  he  heard,  yells  and 
cries  pursuing  him.  Terror  pressed  him  most  from  the  side 
of  his  fellow-men  :  he  was  less  afraid  of  indefinite  chances, 
and  he  swam  on,  panting  and  straining.  He  was  not  so  fresh 
as  he  would  have  been  if  he  had  passed  the  night  in  sleep. 

Yet  the  next  bridge — the  last  bridge  —  was  passed.  He 
was  conscious  of  it ;  but  in  the  tumult  of  his  blood,  he  could 
only  feel  vaguely  that  he  was  safe  and  might  land.  But 
where  ?  The  current  was  having  its  way  with  him  :  he  hardly 
knew  where  he  was  :  exhaustion  was  bringing  on  the  dreamy 
state  that  precedes  unconsciousness. 

But  now  there  were  eyes  that  discerned  him  —  aged  eyes, 
strong  for  the  distance.  Baldassarre,  looking  up  blankly 
from  the  search  in  the  runlet  that  brought  him  nothing,  had 
seen  a  white  object  coming  along  the  broader  stream.  Could 
that  be  any  fortunate  chance  for  him  ?  He  looked  and  looked 
till  the  object  gathered  form  :  then  he  leaned  forward  with  a 
start  as  he  sat  among  the  rank  green  stems,  and  his  eyes 
seemed  to  be  filled  with  a  new  light.  Yet  he  only  watched.  — 
motionless.  Something  was  being  brought  to  him. 

The  next  instant  a  man’s  body  was  cast  violently  on  the 
grass  two  yards  from  him,  and  he  started  forward  like  a  pan¬ 
ther,  clutching  the  velvet  tunic  as  he  fell  forward  on  the  body 
and  flashed  a  look  in  the  man’s  face. 

Dead  —  was  he  dead  ?  The  eyes  were  rigid.  But  no,  it 
could  not  be  ■ —  Justice  had  brought  him.  Men  looked  dead 
sometimes,  and  yet  the  life  came  back  into  them.  Baldassarre 
did  not  feel  feeble  in  that  moment.  He  knew  just  what  he 


WAITING  BY  THE  RIVER. 


175 


could  do.  He  got  his  large  fingers  within  the  neck  of  the 
tunic  and  held  them  there,  kneeling  on  one  knee  beside  the 
body  and  watching  the  face.  There  was  a  fierce  hope  in  his 
heart,  but  it  was  mixed  with  trembling.  In  his  eyes  there  was 
only  fierceness  :  all  the  slow-burning  remnant  of  life  within 
him  seemed  to  have  leaped  into  fiame. 

Rigid  —  rigid  still.  Those  eyes  with  the  half-fallen  lids 
were  locked  against  vengeance.  Could  it  be  that  he  was 
dead  ?  There  was  nothing  to  measure  the  time  :  it  seemed 
long  enough  for  hope  to  freeze  into  despair. 

Surely  at  last  the  eyelids  were  quivering:  the  eyes  were 
no  longer  rigid.  There  was  a  vibrating  light  in  them  :  they 
opened  wide. 

“  Ah,  yes  !  You  see  me  —  you  know  me  !  ” 

Tito  knew  him  ;  but  he  did  not  know  whether  it  was  life  or 
death  that  had  brought  him  into  the  presence  of  his  injured 
father.  It  might  be  death  —  and  death  might  mean  this  chill 
gloom  with  the  face  of  the  hideous  past  hanging  over  him  for¬ 
ever. 

But  now  Baldassarre’s  only  dread  was,  lest  the  young  limbs 
should  escape  him.  He  pressed  his  knuckles  against  the  round 
throat,  and  knelt  upon  the  chest  with  all  the  force  of  his  aged 
frame.  Let  death  come  now  ! 

Again  he  kept  his  watch  on  the  face.  And  when  the  eyes 
were  rigid  again,  he  dared  not  trust  them.  He  would  never 
lose  his  hold  till  some  one  came  and  found  them.  Justice 
would  send  some  witness,  and  then  he,  Baldassarre,  would  de¬ 
clare  that  he  had  killed  this  traitor,  to  whom  he  had  once  been 
a  father.  They  would  perhaps  believe  him  now,  and  then  he 
would  be  content  with  the  struggle  of  justice  on  earth  —  then 
he  would  desire  to  die  with  his  hold  on  this  body,  and  follow 
the  traitor  to  hell  that  he  might  clutch  him  there. 

And  so  he  knelt,  and  so  he  pressed  his  knuckles  against  the 
round  throat,  without  trusting  to  the  seeming  death,  till  the 
light  got  strong  and  he  could  kneel  no  longer.  Then  he  sat 
on  the  body,  still  clutching  the  neck  of  the  tunic.  But  the 
hours  went  on,  and  no  witness  came.  No  eyes  descried  afar 
off  the  two  human  bodies  among  the  tall  grass  by  the  river- 


176 


ROMOLA. 


side.  Florence  was  busy  with  greater  affairs,  and  the  prepara¬ 
tion  of  a  deeper  tragedy. 

Not  long  after  those  two  bodies  were  lying  in  the  grass, 
Savonarola  was  being  tortured,  and  crying  out  in  his  agony, 
“  I  will  confess  !  ” 

It  was  not  until  the  sun  was  westward  that  a  wagon  drawn 
by  a  mild  gray  ox  came  to  the  edge  of  the  grassy  margin,  and 
as  the  man  who  led  it  was  leaning  to  gather  uj)  the  round 
stones  that  lay  heaped  in  readiness  to  be  carried  away,  he 
detected  some  startling  object  in  the  grass.  The  aged  man 
had  fallen  forward,  and  his  dead  clutch  was  on  the  garment 
of  the  other.  It  was  not  possible  to  separate  them  :  nay,  it 
was  better  to  put  them  into  the  wagon  and  carry  them  as  they 
were  into  the  great  piazza,  that  notice  might  be  given  to  the 
Eight. 

As  the  wagon  entered  the  frequented  streets  there  was  a 
growing  crowd  escorting  it  with  its  strange  burden.  No  one 
knew  the  bodies  for  a  long  while,  for  the  aged  face  had  fallen 
forward,  half  hiding  the  younger.  But  before  they  had  been 
moved  out  of  sight,  they  had  been  recognized. 

“  I  know  that  old  man,”  Piero  di  Cosimo  had  testified.  “  I 
painted  his  likeness  once.  He  is  the  prisoner  who  clutched 
Melema  on  the  steps  of  the  Duomo.” 

He  is  perhaps  the  same  old  man  who  appeared  at  supper 
in  my  gardens,”  said  Bernardo  Eucellai,  one  of  the  Eight. 
had  forgotten  him.  I  thought  he  had  died  in  prison.  But 
there  is  no  knowing  the  truth  now.” 

Who  shall  put  his  finger  on  the  work  of  justice,  and  say. 
It  is  there  ”  ?  Justice  is  like  the  Kingdom  of  God — it  ia 
uot  without  us  as  a  fact,  it  is  within  us  as  a  great  yearning. 


ROMOLA’S  WAKING. 


177 


CHAPTER  LXVIIL 

romola’s  waking. 

Komola  in  her  boat  passed  from  dreaming  into  long  deep 
sleep,  and  then  again  from  deep  sleep  into  busy  dreaming,  till 
at  last  she  felt  herself  'stretching  out  her  arms  in  the  court  of 
the  Rargello,  where  the  flickering  flames  of  the  tapers  seemed 
to  get  stronger  and  stronger  till  the  dark  scene  was  blotted  out 
with  light.  Her  eyes  opened  and  she  saw  it  was  the  light  of 
morning.  Her  boat  was  lying  still  in  a  little  creek;  on  her 
right  hand  lay  the  speckless  sapphire-blue  of  the  Mediterra¬ 
nean  ;  on  her  left  one  of  those  scenes  which  were  and  still  are 
repeated  again  and  again  like  a  sweet  rhythm,  on  the  shores 
of  tliat  loveliest  sea. 

In  a  deep  curve  of  the  mountains  lay  a  breadth  of  green 
land,  curtained  by  gentle  tree-shadowed  slopes  leaning  towards 
the  rocky  heights.  Up  these  slopes  might  be  seen  here  and 
there,  gleaming  between  the  tree-tops,  a  pathway  leading  to  a 
little  irregular  mass  of  building  that  seemed  to  have  clambered 
in  a  hasty  way  up  the  mountain-side,  and  taken  a  difficult 
stand  there  for  the  sake  of  showing  the  tall  belfry  as  a  sight 
of  beauty  to  the  scattered  and  clustered  houses  of  the  village 
below.  The  rays  of  the  newly  risen  sun  fell  obliquely  on  the 
westward  horn  of  this  crescent-shaped  nook :  all  else  lay  in 
dewy  shadow.  No  sound  came  across  the  stillness;  the  very 
waters  seemed  to  have  curved  themselves  there  for  rest. 

The  delicious  sun-rays  fell  on  Romola  and  thrilled  her  gentl) 
like  a  caress.  She  lay  motionless,  hardly  watching  the  scene  ; 
rather,  feeling  simply  the  presence  of  peace  and  beauty. 
While  we  are  still  in  our  youth  there  can  always  come,  in  our 
early  waking,  moments  when  mere  passive  existence  is  itself 
a  Lethe,  when  the  exquisiteness  of  subtle  indefinite  sensation 
creates  a  bliss  which  is  without  memory  and  without  desire. 
As  the  soft  warmth  penetrated  Romola’s  young  limbs,  as  her 


ROMOLA. 


178 

eyes  rested  on  this  sequestered  luxuriance,  it  seemed  that  the 
agitating  past  had  glided  away  like  that  dark  scene  in  the 
Bargello,  and  that  the  afternoon  dreams  of  her  girlhood  had 
really  come  back  to  her.  For  a  minute  or  two  the  oblivion 
was  untroubled ;  she  did  not  even  think  that  she  could  rest 
here  forever,  she  only  felt  that  she  rested.  Then  she  became 
distinctly  conscious  that  she  was  lying  in  the  boat  which  had 
been  bearing  her  over  the  waters  all  through  the  night.  In¬ 
stead  of  bringing  her  to  death,  it  had  been  the  gently  lulling 
cradle  of  a  new  life.  And  in  spite  of  her  evening  despair  she 
was  glad  that  the  morning  had  come  to  her  again:  glad  to 
think  that  she  was  resting  in  the  familiar  sunlight  rather  than 
in  the  unknown  regions  of  death.  Could  she  not  rest  here  ? 
Ko  sound  from  Florence  would  reach  her.  Already  oblivion 
was  troubled;  from  behind  the  golden  haze  were  piercing 
domes  and  towers  and  walls,  parted  by  a  river  and  enclosed  by 
the  green  hills. 

She  rose  from  her  reclining  posture  and  sat  up  in  the  boat, 
willing,  if  she  could,  to  resist  the  rush  of  thoughts  that  urged 
themselves  along  with  the  conjecture  how  far  the  boat  had 
carried  her.  Why  need  she  mind  ?  This  was^  a  sheltered 
nook  where  there  were  simple  villagers  who  would  not  harm 
her.  For  a  little  while,  at  least,  she  might  rest  and  resolve  on 
nothing.  Presently  she  would  go  and  get  some  bread  and 
milk,  and  then  she  would  nestle  in  the  green  quiet,  and  feel 
that  there  was  a  pause  in  her  life.  She  turned  to  watch  the 
crescent-shaped  valley,  that  she  might  get  back  the  soothing 
sense  of  peace  and  beauty  which  she  had  felt  in  her  first 
waking. 

She  had  not  been  in  this  attitude  of  contemplation  more 
than  a  few  minutes  when  across  the  stillness  there  came  a 
piercing  cry  ;  not  a  brief  cry,  but  continuous  and  more  and 
more  intense.  Romola  felt  sure  it  was  the  cry  of  a  little  child 
in  distress  that  no  one  came  to  help.  She  started  up  and  put 
one  foot  on  the  side  of  the  boat  ready  to  leap  on  to  the  beach ; 
but  she  paused  there  and  listened :  the  mother  of  the  child 
must  be  near,  the  cry  must  soon  cease.  But  it  went  on,  and 
drew  Romola  so  irresistibly,  seeming  the  more  piteous  to  her 


ROMOLA’S  WAKING. 


179' 


for  the  sense  of  peace  which  had  preceded  it,  that  she  jumped 
on  to  the  beach  and  walked  many  paces  before  she  knew  what 
direction  she  would  take.  The  cry,  she  thought,  came  from 
some  rough  garden  growth  many  yards  on  her  right  hand, 
where  she  saw  a  half-ruined  hovel.  She  climbed  over  a  low 
broken  stone  fence,  and  made  her  way  across  patches  of  weedy 
green  crops  and  ripe  but  neglected  corn.  The  cry  grew 
plainer,  and  convinced  that  she  was  right  she  hastened  towards 
the  hovel ;  but  even  in  that  hurried  walk  she  felt  an  oppres¬ 
sive  change  in  the  air  as  she  left  the  sea  behind.  Was  there 
some  taint  lurking  among  the  green  luxuriance  that  had 
seemed  such  an  inviting  shelter  from  the  heat  of  the  coming 
day  ?  She  could  see  the  opening  into  the  hovel  now,  and  the 
cry  was  darting  through  her  like  a  pain.  The  next  moment 
her  foot  Avas  within  the  doorway,  but  the  sight  she  beheld  in 
the  sombre  light  arrested  her  with  a  shock  of  awe  and  horror, 
On  the  straw,  with  which  the  floor  was  scattered,  lay  three 
dead  bodies,  one  of  a  tall  man,  one  of  a  girl  about  eight  years 
old,  and  one  of  a  young  woman  whose  long  black  hair  was 
being  clutched  and  pulled  by  a  living  child  —  the  child  that 
was  sending  forth  the  piercing  cry.  Romola’s  experience  in 
the  haunts  of  death  and  disease  made  thought  and  action 
prompt :  she  lifted  the  little  living  child,  and  in  trying  to 
soothe  it  on  her  bosom,  still  bent  to  look  at  the  bodies  and  see 
if  they  were  really  dead.  The  strongly  marked  type  of  race 
in  their  features,  and  their  peculiar  garb,  made  her  conjecture 
that  they  were  Spanish  or  Portuguese  Jews,  who  had  perhaps 
been  put  ashore  and  abandoned  there  by  rapacious  sailors,  to 
whom  their  property  remained  as  a  prey.  Such  things  were 
happening  continually  to  Jews  compelled  to  abandon  their 
homes  by  the  Inquisition  ;  the  cruelty  of  greed  thrust  them 
from  the  sea,  and  the  cruelty  of  superstition  thrust  them  back 
to  it. 

‘‘But,  surely,”  thought  Bomola,  “I  shall  find  some  woman  in 
tlie  village  whose  mother’s  heart  will  not  let  her  refuse  to  tend 
this  helpless  child — if  the  real  mother  is  indeed  dead.” 

This  doubt  remained,  because  while  the  man  and  girl  looked 
emaciated  and  also  showed  signs  of  having  been  long  dead, 


180 


ROMOLA. 


the  woman  seemed  to  have  been  hardier,  and  had  not  quite 
lost  the  robustness  of  her  form.  E-omola,  kneeling,  was  about 
to  lay  her  hand  on  the  heart ;  but  as  she  lifted  the  piece  of 
yellow  woollen  drapery  that  lay  across  the  bosom,  she  saw  the 
purple  spots  which  marked  the  familiar  pestilence.  Then  it 
struck  her  that  if  the  villagers  knew  of  this,  she  might  have 
more  difficulty  than  she  had  expected  in  getting  help  from 
them ;  they  would  perhaps  shrink  from  her  with  that  child  in 
her  arms.  But  she  had  money  to  offer  them,  and  they  would 
not  refuse  to  give  her  some  goat’s  milk  in  exchange  for  it. 

She  set  out  at  once  towards  the  village,  her  mind  filled  now 
with  the  effort  to  soothe  the  little  dark  creature,  and  with 
wondering  how  she  should  win  some  woman  to  be  good  to  it. 
She  could  not  help  hoping  a  little  in  a  certain  awe  she  had 
observed  herself  to  inspire,  when  she  appeared,  unknown  and 
unexpected,  in  her  religious  dress.  As  she  passed  across  a 
breadth  of  cultivated  ground,  she  noticed,  with  wonder,  that 
little  patches  of  corn  mingled  with  the  other  crops  had  been 
left  to  over-ripeness  untouched  by  the  sickle,  and  that  goldeii 
apples  and  dark  figs  lay  rotting  on  the  weedy  earth.  There 
were  grassy  spaces  within  sight,  but  no  cow,  or  sheep,  or  goat. 
The  stillness  began  to  have  something  fearful  in  it  to  Romola ; 
she  hurried  along  towards  the  thickest  cluster  of  houses,  where 
there  would  be  the  most  life  to  appeal  to  on  behalf  of  the  help¬ 
less  life  she  carried  in  her  arms.  But  she  had  picked  up  two 
figs,  and  bit  little  pieces  from  the  sweet  pulp  to  still  the  child 
with. 

She  entered  between  two  lines  of  dwellings.  It  was  time 
that  villagers  should  have  been  stirring  long  ago,  but  not  a 
soul  was  in  sight.  The  air  was  becoming  more  and  more 
oppressive,  laden,  it  seemed,  with  some  horrible  impurity. 
There  was  a  door  open ;  she  looked  in,  and  saw  grim  empti¬ 
ness.  Another  open  door ;  and  through  that  she  saw  a  man 
lying  dead  with  all  his  garments  on,  his  head  lying  athwart  a 
spade  handle,  and  an  earthenware  cruse  in  his  hand,  as  if  he 
had  fallen  suddenly. 

Bomola  felt  horror  taking  possession  of  her.  Was  she  in  a 
village  of  the  unburied  dead  ?  Shft  wanted  to  listen  if  there 


ROMOLA’S  WAKING. 


181 


were  any  faint  sound,  but  tbe  child  cried  out  afresh  when  she 
ceased  to  feed  it,  and  the  cry  filled  her  ears.  At  last  she  saw 
a  figure  crawling  slowly  out  of  a  house,  and  soon  sinking  back 
in  a  sitting  posture  against  the  wall.  She  hastened  towards 
the  figure ;  it  was  a  young  woman  in  fevered  anguish,  and 
she,  too,  held  a  pitcher  in  her  hand.  As  Eomola  approached 
her  she  did  not  start ;  the  one  need  was  too  absorbing  for  any 
other  idea  to  impress  itself  on  her. 

“Water !  get  me  water !  ”  she  said,  with  a  moaning  utterance. 

Eomola  stooped  to  take  the  pitcher,  and  said  gently  in  her 
ear,  “You  shall  have  water;  can  you  point  towards  the  well 

The  hand  was  lifted  towards  the  more  distant  end  of  the 
little  street,  and  Eomola  set  off  at  once  with  as  much  speed  as 
she  could  use  under  the  difficulty  of  carrying  the  pitcher  as 
well  as  feeding  the  child.  But  the  little  one  was  getting  more 
content  as  the  morsels  of  sweet  pulp  were  repeated,  and  ceased 
to  distress  her  with  its  cry,  so  that  she  could  give  a  less  dis¬ 
tracted  attention  to  the  objects  around  her. 

The  well  lay  twenty  yards  or  more  beyond  the  end  of 
the  street,  and  as  Eomola  was  approaching  it  her  eyes  were 
directed  to  the  opposite  green  slope  immediately  below  the 
church.  High  up,  on  a  patch  of  grass  between  the  trees,  she 
had  descried  a  cow  and  a  couple  of  goats,  and  she  tried  to 
trace  a  line  of  path  that  would  lead  her  close  to  that  cheering 
sight,  when  once  she  had  done  her  errand  to  the  well.  Occu¬ 
pied  in  this  way,  she  was  not  aware  that  she  was  very  near 
the  well,  and  that  some  one  approaching  it  on  the  other  side 
had  fixed  a  pair  of  astonished  eyes  upon  her. 

Eomola  certainly  presented  a  sight  which,  at  that  moment 
and  in  that  place,  could  hardly  have  been  seen  without  some 
])ausing  and  palpitation.  With  her  gaze  fixed  intently  on  the 
distant  slope,  the  long  lines  of  her  thick  gray  garment  giving 
a  gliding  character  to  her  rapid  walk,  her  hair  rolling  back¬ 
ward  and  illuminated  on  tne  left  side  by  the  sun-rays,  the  little 
olive  baby  on  her  right  arm  now  looking  out  with  jet-black 
eyes,  she  might  well  startle  that  youth  of  fifteen,  accustomed 
to  swing  the  censer  in  the  presence  of  a  Madonna  less  fail 
and  marvellous  than  this. 


182 


ROMOLA. 


^^She  carries  a  pitcTier  in  her  hand  —  to  fetch  water  for  the 
sick.  It  is  the  Holy  Mother,  come  to  take  care  of  the  people 
who  have  the  pestilence.” 

It  was  a  sight  of  awe  :  she  would,  perhaps,  be  angry  with 
those  who  fetched  water  for  themselves  only.  The  youth 
flung  down  his  vessel  in  terror,  and  Romola,  aware  now  of 
some  one  near  her,  saw  the  black  and  white  figure  fly  as  if  for 
dear  life  towards  the  slope  she  had  just  been  contemplating. 
Rut  remembering  the  parched  sufferer,  she  half-filled  her 
pitcher  quickly  and  hastened  back. 

Entering  the  house  to  look  for  a  small  cup,  she  saw  salt 
meat  and  meal :  there  were  no  signs  of  want  in  the  dwelling. 
With  nimble  movement  she  seated  baby  on  the  ground,  and 
lifted  a  cup  of  water  to  the  sufferer,  who  drank  eagerly  and 
then  closed  her  eyes  and  leaned  her  head  backward,  seeming 
to  give  herself  up  to  the  sense  of  relief.  Presently  she  opened 
her  eyes,  and,  looking  at  Romola,  said  languidly  — 

“  Who  are  you  ?  ” 

“I  came  over  the  sea,”  said  Romola.  “I  only  came  this 
morning.  Are  all  the  people  dead  in  these  houses  ?  ” 

“  I  think  they  are  all  ill  now  —  all  that  are  not  dead.  My 
father  and  my  sister  lie  dead  up-stairs,  and  there  is  no  one  to 
bury  them  :  ana  soon  I  shall  die.” 

“  Not  so,  I  hope,”  said  Romola.  “  I  am  come  to  take  care 
of  you.  I  am  used  to  the  pestilence  ;  I  am  not  afraid.  But 
there  must  be  some  left  who  are  not  ill.  I  saw  a  youth  run¬ 
ning  towards  the  mountain  when  I  went  to  the  well.” 

‘‘  I  cannot  tell.  When  the  pestilence  came,  a  great  many 
jieople  went  away,  and  drove  off  the  cows  and  goats.  Give  me 
more  water  !  ” 

Romola,  suspecting  that  if  she  followed  the  direction  of  the 
youth’s  flight,  she  should  find  some  men  and  women  who  were 
still  healthy  and  able,  determined  to  seek  them  out  at  once, 
that  she  might  at  least  win  them  to  take  care  of  the  child,  and 
leave  her  free  to  come  back  and  see  how  many  living  needed 
help,  and  how  many  dead  needed  burial.  She  trusted  to  her 
powers  of  persuasion  to  conquer  the  aid  of  the  timorous,  when 
once  she  knew  what  was  to  be  done. 


At  the  Well. 


ROMOLA’S  WAKING. 


18a 


Promising  the  sick  woman  to  come  back  to  her,  she  lifted 
the  dark  bantling  again,  and  set  off  towards  the  slope.  She 
felt  no  burden  of  choice  on  her  now,  no  longing  for  death. 
She  was  thinking  how  she  would  go  to  the  other  sufferers,  as 
she  had  gone  to  that  fevered  woman. 

But,  with  the  child  on  her  arm,  it  was  not  so  easy  to  her 
as  usual  to  walk  up  a  slope,  and  it  seemed  a  long  while  before 
the  winding  path  took  her  near  the  cow  and  the  goats.  She 
was  beginning  herself  to  feel  faint  from  heat,  hunger,  and 
thirst,  and  as  she  reached  a  double  turning,  she  paused  to  con¬ 
sider  whether  she  would  not  wait  near  the  cow,  which  some 
one  was  likely  to  come  and  milk  soon,  rather  than  toil  up  to 
the  church  before  she  had  taken  any  rest.  Raising  her  eyes 
to  measure  the  steep  distance,  she  saw  peeping  between  the 
boughs,  not  more  than  five  yards  off,  a  broad  round  face,  watch¬ 
ing  her  attentively,  and  lower  down  the  black  skirt  of  a  priest’s 
garment,  and  a  hand  grasping  a  bucket.  She  stood  mutely 
observing,  and  the  face,  too,  remained  motionless.  Romola 
had  often  witnessed  the  overpowering  force  of  dread  in  cases 
of  pestilence,  and  she  was  cautious. 

Raising  her  voice  in  a  tone  of  gentle  pleading,  she  said,  “  I 
came  over  the  sea.  I  am  hungry,  and  so  is  the  child.  Will 
you  not  give  us  some  milk  ?  ” 

Romola  had  divined  part  of  the  truth,  but  she  had  not  di¬ 
vined  that  2)reoccupation  of  the  priest’s  mind  which  charged 
her  words  with  a  strange  significance.  Only  a  little  while 
ago,  the  young  acolyte  had  brought  word  to  the  Padre  that  he 
had  seen  the  Holy  Mother  with  the  Babe,  fetching  water  for 
the  sick  :  she  was  as  tall  as  the  cypresses,  and  had  a  light 
about  her  head,  and  she  looked  up  at  the  church.  The  pievano  ^ 
had  not  listened  with  entire  belief :  he  had  been  more  than 
lil'ty  years  in  the  world  without  having  any  vision  of  the  Ma¬ 
donna,  and  he  thought  the  boy  might  have  misinterpreted  the 
unexpected  appearance  of  a  villager.  But  he  had  been  made 
uneasy,  and  before  venturing  to  come  down  and  milk  his  cow, 
he  had  repeated  many  Aves.  The  pievano’s  conscience  tor¬ 
mented  him  a  little :  he  trembled  at  the  pestilence,  but  he 

1  Parish  priest. 


184 


ROMOLA. 


also  trembled  at  the  thought  of  the  mild-faced  Mother,  con¬ 
scious  that  that  Invisible  Mercy  might  demand  something 
more  of  him  than  prayers  and  “  Hails.”  In  this  state  of  mind 
—  unable  to  banish  the  image  the  boy  had  raised  of  the  Mother 
with  the  glory  about  her  tending  the  sick — the  pievano  had 
come  down  to  milk  his  cow,  and  had  suddenly  caught  sight 
of  Romola  pausing  at  the  parted  way.  Her  pleading  words, 
with  their  strange  refinement  of  tone  and  accent,  instead  of 
being  explanatory,  had  a  preternatural  sound  for  him.  Yet 
he  did  not  quite  believe  he  saw  the  Holy  Mother :  he  was  in 
a  state  of  alarmed  hesitation.  If  anything  miraculous  were 
happening,  he  felt  there  was  no  strong  presumption  that  the 
miracle  would  be  in  his  favor.  He  dared  not  run  away ;  he 
dared  not  advance. 

“  Come  down,”  said  Eomola,  after  a  pause.  Do  not  fear. 
Fear  rather  to  deny  food  to  the  hungry  when  they  ask  you.” 

A  moment  after,  the  boughs  were  parted,  and  the  complete 
figure  of  a  thick-set  priest  with  a  broad,  harmless  face,  his 
black  frock  much  worn  and  soiled,  stood,  bucket  in  hand,  look¬ 
ing  at  her  timidly,  and  still  keeping  aloof  as  he  took  the  path 
towards  the  cow  in  silence. 

Eomola  followed  him  and  watched  him  without  speaking 
again,  as  he  seated  himself  against  the  tethered  cow,  and,  when 
he  had  nervously  drawn  some  milk,  gave  it  to  her  in  a  brass 
cup  he  carried  with  him  in  the  bucket.  As  Eomola  put  the 
cup  to  the  lips  of  the  eager  child,  and  afterwards  drank  some 
milk  herself,  the  Padre  observed  her  from  his  wooden  stool 
with  a  timidity  that  changed  its  character  a  little.  He  recog¬ 
nized  the  Hebrew  baby,  he  was  certain  that  he  had  a  substan¬ 
tial  woman  before  him  ;  but  there  was  still  something  strange 
and  unaccountable  in  Eomola’s  presence  in  this  spot,  and  the 
Padre  had  a  presentiment  that  things  were  going  to  change 
with  him.  Moreover,  that  Hebrew  baby  was  terribly  asso¬ 
ciated  with  the  dread  of  pestilence. 

Nevertheless,  when  Eomola  smiled  at  the  little  one  sucking 
its  own  milky  lips,  and  stretched  out  the  brass  cup  again,  say¬ 
ing,  “  Give  us  more,  good  father,”  he  obeyed  less  nervously 
than  before. 


RdMOLA'S  waking. 


185 


Romola  on  her  side  was  not  unobservant ;  and  when  the 
second  supply  of  milk  had  been  drunk,  she  looked  down  at  the 
round-headed  man,  and  said  with  mild  decision  — 

‘‘  And  now  tell  me,  father,  how  this  pestilence  came,  and 
why  you  let  your  people  die  without  the  sacraments,  and  lie 
unburied.  For  I  am  come  over  the  sea  to  help  those  who  are 
left  alive  —  and  you,  too,  will  help  them  now.” 

He  told  her  the  story  of  the  pestilence :  and  while  he  was 
telling  it,  the  youth,  who  had  fled  before,  had  come  peeping 
and  advancing  gradually,  till  at  last  he  stood  and  watched  the 
scene  from  behind  a  neighboring  bush. 

Three  families  of  Jews,  twenty  souls  in  all,  had  been  put 
ashore  many  weeks  ago,  some  of  them  already  ill  of  the  pes¬ 
tilence.  The  villagers,  said  the  priest,  had  of  course  refused 
to  give  shelter  to  the  miscreants,  otherwise  than  in  a  distant 
hovel,  and  under  heaps  of  straw.  But  when  the  strangers  had 
died  of  the  plague,  and  some  of  the  people  had  throw*  the 
bodies  into  the  sea,  the  sea  had  brought  them  back  again  in  a 
^reat  storm,  and  everybody  was  smitten  with  terror.  A  grave 
was  dug,  and  the  bodies  were  buried ;  but  then  the  pestilence 
attacked  the  Christians,  and  the  greater  number  of  the  vil¬ 
lagers  went  away  over  the  mountain,  driving  away  their  few 
cattle,  and  carrying  provisions.  The  priest  had  not  fled ;  he 
had  stayed  and  prayed  for  the  people,  and  he  had  prevailed 
on  the  youth  Jacopo  to  stay  with  him;  but  he  confessed  that 
a  mortal  terror  of  the  plague  had  taken  hold  of  him,  and  he 
had  not  dared  to  go  down  into  the  valley. 

“  You  will  fear  no  longer,  father,”  said  Romola,  in  a  tone  of 
encouraging  authority  ;  “  you  will  come  down  with  me,  and 
we  will  see  who  is  living,  and  we  will  look  for  the  dead  to 
bury  them.  I  have  walked  about  for  months  where  the  pesti¬ 
lence  was,  and  see,  I  am  strong.  Jacopo  will  come  with  us,” 
she  added,  motioning  to  the  peeping  lad,  who  came  slowly  from 
behind  his  defensive  bush,  as  if  invisible  threads  were  drag¬ 
ging  him. 

“Come,  Jacopo,”  said  Romola  again,  smiling  at  him,  “you 
will  carry  the  child  for  me.  See  !  your  arms  are  strong,  and 
I  am  tired.” 


186 


ROMOLA. 


That  was  a  dreadful  proposal  to  Jacopo,  and  to  the  priest 
also  ;  but  they  were  both  under  a  peculiar  influence  forcing 
them  to  obey.  The  suspicion  that  Romola  was  a  supernatural 
form  was  dissipated,  but  their  minds  were  filled  instead  with 
the  more  effective  sense  that  she  was  a  human  being  whom 
God  had  sent  over  the  sea  to  command  them. 

“  Now  we  will  carry  down  the  milk,”  said  Eomola,  “  and  see 
if  any  one  wants  it.” 

So  they  went  all  together  down  the  slope,  and  that  morning 
the  sufferers  saw  help  come  to  them  in  their  despair.  There 
were  hardly  more  than  a  score  alive  in  the  whole  valley  ;  but 
all  of  these  were  comforted,  most  were  saved,  and  the  dead 
were  buried. 

In  this  way  days,  weeks,  and  months  passed  with  Eomola 
till  the  men  were  digging,  and  sowing  again,  till  the  women 
smiled  at  her  as  they  carried  their  great  vases  on  their  heads 
to  the  well,  and  the  Hebrew  baby  was  a  tottering  tumbling 
Christian,  Benedetto  by  name,  having  been  baptized  in  the 
church  on  the  mountain-side.  But  by  that  time  she  herself 
was  suffering  from  the  fatigue  and  languor  that  must  come 
after  a  continuous  strain  on  mind  and  body.  She  had  taken 
for  her  dwelling  one  of  the  houses  abandoned  by  their  owners, 
standing  a  little  aloof  from  the  village  street;  and  here  on 
a  thick  heap  of  clean  straw  —  a  delicious  bed  for  those  who 
do  not  dream  of  down  —  she  felt  glad  to  lie  still  through  most 
of  the  daylight  hours,  taken  care  of  along  with  the  little 
Benedetto  by  a  woman  whom  the  pestilence  had  widowed. 

Every  day  the  Padre  and  Jacopo  and  the  small  flock  of 
surviving  villagers  paid  their  visit  to  this  cottage  to  see  the 
blessed  Lady,  and  to  bring  her  of  their  best  as  an  offering  — 
honey,  fresh  cakes,  eggs,  and  polenta.  It  was  a  sight  they 
could  none  of  them  forget,  a  sight  they  all  told  of  in  their  old 
age  —  how  the  sweet  and  sainted  lady  with  her  fair  face,  her 
golden  hair,  and  her  brown  eyes  that  had  a  blessing  in  them, 
lay  weary  with  her  labors  after  she  had  been  sent  over  the  sea 
to  help  them  in  their  extremity,  and  how  the  queer  little  black 
Benedetto  used  to  crawl  about  the  straw  by  her  side  and  want 
everything  that  was  brought  to  her,  and  she  always  gave  him 


HOMEWARD.  187 

a  bit  of  wbat  she  took,  and  told  them  if  they  loved  her  they 
must  be  good  to  Benedetto. 

Many  legends  were  afterwards  told  in  that  valley  about  the 
blessed  Lady  who  came  over  the  sea,  but  they  were  legends 
by  which  all  who  heard  might  know  that  in  times  gone  by  a 
woman  had  done  beautiful  loving  deeds  there,  rescuing  those 
who  were  ready  to  perish. 


♦  - 

CHAPTER  LXIX. 

HOMEWARD. 

In  those  silent  wintry  hours  when  Romola  lay  resting  from 
her  weariness,  her  mind,  travelling  back  over  the  past,  and 
gazing  across  the  undefined  distance  of  the  future,  saw  all 
objects  from  a  new  position.  Her  experience  since  the  mo¬ 
ment  of  her  waking  in  the  boat  had  come  to  her  with  as  strong 
an  effect  as  that  of  the  fresh  seal  on  the  dissolving  wax.  She 
had  felt  herself  without  bonds,  without  motive ;  sinking  in 
mere  egoistic  complaining  that  life  could  bring  her  no  content ; 
feeling  a  right  to  say,  ‘‘  I  am  tired  of  life,  I  want  to  die.” 
That  thought  had  sobbed  within  her  as  she  fell  asleep,  but 
from  the  moment  after  her  waking  when  the  cry  had  drawn 
her,  she  had  not  even  reflected,  as  she  used  to  do  in  Plorence, 
that  she  was  glad  to  live  because  she  could  lighten  sorrow  — 
she  had  simply  lived,  with  so  energetic  an  impulse  to  share 
the  life  around  her,  to  answer  the  call  of  need  and  do  the 
work  which  cried  aloud  to  be  done,  that  the  reasons  for  living, 
enduring,  laboring,  never  took  the  form  of  argument. 

The  experience  was  like  a  new  baptism  to  Romola.  In 
Florence  the  simpler  relations  of  the  human  being  to  his 
fellow-men  had  been  complicated  for  her  with  all  the  special 
ties  of  marriage,  the  State,  and  religious  discipleship,  and 
when  these  had  disappointed  her  trust,  the  shock  seemed  to 
have  shaken  her  aloof  from  life  and  stunned  her  sympathy. 
But  now  she  said,  “  It  was  mere  baseness  in  me  to  desire 


188  . 


ROMOLA. 


death.  If  everything  else  is  doubtful,  this  suffering  that  I 
can  help  is  certain ;  if  the  glory  of  the  cross  is  an  illusion,  the 
sorrow  is  only  the  truer.  While  the  strength  is  in  my  arm  I 
will  stretch  it  out  to  the  fainting;  while  the  light  visits  my 
eyes  they  shall  seek  the  forsaken.’’ 

And  then  the  past  arose  with  a  fresh  appeal  to  her.  Her 
work  in  this  green  valley  was  done,  and  the  emotions  that 
were  disengaged  from  the  people  immediately  around  her 
rushed  back  into  the  old  deep  channels  of  use  and  affection. 
That  rare  possibility  of  self-contemplation  which  comes  in 
any  complete  severance  from  our  wonted  life  made  her  judge 
herself  as  she  had  never  done  before:  the  compunction  which 
is  inseparable  from  a  sympathetic  nature  keenly  alive  to  the 
possible  experience  of  others,  began  to  stir  in  her  with  grow¬ 
ing  force.  She  questioned  the  justness  of  her  own  conclu¬ 
sions,  of  her  own  deeds :  she  had  been  rash,  arrogant,  always 
dissatisfied  that  others  were  not  good  enough,  while  she  her¬ 
self  had  not  been  true  to  what  her  soul  had  once  recognized 
as  the  best.  She  began  to  condemn  her  flight:  after  all,  it 
had  been  cowardly  self-care;  the  grounds  on  which  Savonarola 
had  once  taken  her  back  were  truer,  deeper  than  the  grounds 
she  had  had  for  her  second  flight.  How  could  she  feel  the 
needs  of  others  and  not  feel,  above  all,  the  needs  of  the 
nearest? 

But  then  came  reaction  against  such  self-reproach.  The 
memory  of  her  life  with  Tito,  of  the  conditions  which  made 
their  real  union  impossible,  while  their  external  union  im¬ 
posed  a  set  of  false  duties  on  her  which  were  essentially  the 
concealment  and  sanctioning  of  what  her  mind  revolted  from, 
told  her  that  flight  had  been  her  only  resource.  All  minds, 
except  such  as  are  delivered  from  doubt  by  dulness  of  sensi¬ 
bility,  must  be  subject  to  this  recurring  conflict  where  the 
many-twisted  conditions  of  life  have  forbidden  the  fulfilment 
of  a  bond.  For  in  strictness  there  is  no  replacing  of  rela¬ 
tions:  the  presence  of  the  new  does  not  nullify  the  failure 
and  breach  of  the  old.  Life  has  lost  its  perfection:  it  has 
been  maimed;  and  until  the  wounds  are  quite  scarred,  con¬ 
science  continually  casts  backward,  doubting  glances. 


HOMEWARD. 


189 


Romola  shrank  with  dread  from  the  renewal  of  her  prox¬ 
imity  to  Tito,  and  yet  she  was  uneasy  that  she  had  put  her¬ 
self  out  of  reach  of  knowing  what  was  his  fate  —  uneasy  that 
the  moment  might  yet  come  when  he  would  be  in  misery  and 
need  her.  There  was  still  a  thread  of  pain  within  her,  testi¬ 
fying  to  those  words  of  Fra  Girolamo,  that  she  could  not 
cease  to  be  a  wife.  Could  anything  utterly  cease  for  her  that 
had  once  mingled  itself  with  the  current  of  her  heart’s 
blood  ? 

Florence,  and  all  her  life  there,  had  come  back  to  her  like 
hunger ;  her  feelings  could  not  go  wandering  after  the  possi¬ 
ble  and  the  vague :  their  living  fibre  was  fed  with  the  memory 
of  familiar  things.  And  the  thought  that  she  had  divided 
herself  from  them  forever  became  more  and  more  importunate 
in  these  hours  that  were  unfilled  with  action.  What  if  Fra 
Girolamo  had  been  wrong  ?  What  if  the  life  of  Florence  was 
a  web  of  inconsistencies  ?  Was  she,  then,  something  higher, 
that  she  should  shake  the  dust  from  off  her  feet,  and  say, 
“  This  world  is  not  good  enough  for  me  ”  ?  If  she  had  been 
really  higher,  she  would  not  so  easily  have  lost  all  her  trust. 

Tier  indignant  grief  for  her  godfather  had  no  longer  com¬ 
plete  possession  of  her,  and  her  sense  of  debt  to  Savonarola 
was  recovering  predominance.  Nothing  that  had  come,  or 
was  to  come,  could  do  away  with  the  fact  that  there  had  been 
a  great  inspiration  in  him  which  had  waked  a  new  life  in 
her.  W'ho,  in  all  her  experience,  could  demand  the  same 
gratitude  from  her  as  he  ?  His  errors  —  might  they  not  bring 
calamities  ? 

She  could  not  rest.  She  hardly  knew  whether  it  was  her 
strength  returning  with  the  budding  leaves  that  made  her 
active  again,  or  whether  it  was  her  eager  longing  to  get  nearer 
Florence.  She  did  not  imagine  herselFdaring  to  enter  Florence, 
but  the  desire  to  be  near  ^nough  to  learn  what  was  happen¬ 
ing  there  urged  itself  with  a  strength  that  excluded  all  other 
purposes. 

And  one  March  morning  the  people  in  the  valley  were  gath¬ 
ered  together  to  see  the  blessed  Lady  depart.  Jacopo  had 
fetched  a  mule  for  her,  and  was  going  with  her  over  the 


190 


ROMOLA. 


mountains.  The  Padre,  too,  was  going  with  her  to  the  nearest 
town,  that  he  might  help  her  in  learning  the  safest  way  by 
which  she  might  get  to  Pistoja.  Her  store  of  trinkets  and 
money,  untouched  in  this  valley,  was  abundant  for  her  needs. 

If  Romola  had  been  less  drawn  by  the  longing  that  was 
taking  her  away,  it  would  have  been  a  hard  moment  for  her 
vhen  she  walked  along  the  village  street  for  the  last  time, 
while  the  Padre  and  Jacopo,  with  the  mule,  were  awaiting 
her  near  the  well.  Her  steps  were  hindered  by  the  wailing 
people,  who  knelt  and  kissed  her  hands,  then  clung  to  her 
skirts  and  kissed  the  gray  folds,  crying,  ‘‘Ah,  why  will  you 
go,  when  the  good  season  is  beginning  and  the  crops  will  be 
plentiful  ?  Why  will  you  go  ?  ’’ 

“  Do  not  be  sorry,”  said  Eomola,  “  you  are  well  now,  and  I 
shall  remember  you.  I  must  go  and  see  if  my  own  people 
want  me.” 

“  Ah,  yes,  if  they  have  the  pestilence  !  ” 

“  Look  at  us  again.  Madonna !  ” 

“  Yes,  yes,  we  will  be  good  to  the  little  Benedetto !” 

At  last  Roinola  mounted  her  mule,  but  a  vigorous  scream¬ 
ing  from  Benedetto  as  he  saw  her  turn  from  him  in  this  new 
position,  was  an  excuse  for  all  the  people  to  follow  her  and 
insist  that  he  must  ride  on  the  mule’s  neck  to  the  foot  of  the 
slope. 

The  parting  must  come  at  last,  but  as  Romola  turned  con¬ 
tinually  before  she  passed  out  of  sight,  she  saw  the  little  flock 
lingering  to  catch  the  last  waving  of  her  hand. 


CHAPTER  LXX. 

MEETING  AGAIN. 

On  the  14th  of  April  Romola  was  once  more  within  the 
walls  of  Florence.  Unable  to  rest  at  Pistoja,  where  ccaitra- 
dictory  reports  reached  her  about  the  Trial  by  Fire,  she  had 


MEETING  AGAIN. 


191 


gone  on  to  Prato ;  and  was  beginning  to  think  that  she  should 
be  drawn  on  to  Florence  in  spite  of  dread,  when  she  encoun¬ 
tered  that  monk  of  San  Spirito  who  had  been  her  godfather’s 
confessor.  From  him  she  learned  the  full  story  of  Savonarola’s 
arrest,  and  of  her  husband’s  death.  This  Augustinian  monk 
had  been  in  the  stream  of  people  who  had  followed  the  wagon 
with  its  awful  burthen  into  the  piazza,  and  he  could  tell  her 
what  was  generally  known  in  Florence  —  that  Tito  had  escaped 
from  an  assaulting  mob  by  leaping  into  the  Arno,  but  had  been 
murdered  on  the  bank  by  an  old  man  who  had  long  had  an 
enmity  against  him.  But  Romola  understood  the  catastrophe 
as  no  one  else  did.  Of  Savonarola  the  monk  told  her,  in  that 
tone  of  unfavorable  prejudice  which  was  usual  in  the  Black 
Brethren  (Frati  Neri)  towards  the  brother  who  showed  white 
under  his  black,  that  he  had  confessed  himself  a  deceiver  of 
the  people. 

Bomola  paused  no  longer.  That  evening  she  was  in  Flor¬ 
ence,  sitting  in  agitated  silence  under  the  exclamations  of  joy 
and  wailing,  mingled  with  exuberant  narrative,  which  were 
poured  into  her  ears  by  Monna  Brigida,  who  had  backslided 
into  false  hair  in  Romola’s  absence,  but  now  drew  it  off  again 
and  declared  she  would  not  mind  being  gray,  if  her  dear  child 
would  stay  with  her. 

Bomola  was  too  deeply  moved  by  the  main  events  which 
she  had  known  before  coming  to  Florence,  to  be  wrought  upon 
by  the  doubtful  gossiping  details  added  in  Brigida’s  narrative. 
The  tragedy  of  her  husband’s  death,  of  Fra  Girolamo’s  confes¬ 
sion  of  duplicity  under  the  coercion  of  torture,  left  her  hardly 
any  power’  of  apprehending  minor  circumstances.  All  the 
mental  activity  she  could  exert  under  that  load  of  awe-stricken 
grief,  was  absorbed  by  two  purposes  which  must  supersede 
every  other ;  to  try  and  see  Savonarola,  and  to  learn  what  had 
become  of  Tessa  and  the  children. 

“Tell  me,  cousin,”  she  said  abruptly,  when  Monna  Brigi¬ 
da’s  tongue  had  run  quite  away  from  troubles  into  projects 
of  Romola’s  living  with  her,  “has  anything  been  seen  or 
said  since  Tito’s  death  of  a  young  woman  with  two  little 
ohildren  ?  ” 


192 


BOMOLA. 


Brigida  started,  rounded  her  eyes,  and  lifted  up  her  hands. 

“  Cristo  !  no.  What !  was  he  so  bad  as  that,  my  poor  child  ? 
Ah,  then,  that  was  why  you  went  away,  and  left  me  word  only 
that  you  went  of  your  own  free  will.  Well,  well;  if  I’d 
known  that,  I  should  n’t  have  thought  you  so  strange  and 
flighty.  For  I  did  say  to  myself,  though  I  did  n’t  tell  any¬ 
body  else,  ‘  What  was  she  to  go  away  from  her  husband  for, 
leaving  him  to  mischief,  only  because  they  cut  poor  Bernardo’s 
head  off  ?  She ’s  got  her  father ’s  temper,’  I  said,  ‘  that ’s 
what  it  is.’  Well,  well ;  never  scold  me,  child :  Bardo  was 
fierce,  you  can’t  deny  it.  But  if  you  had  only  told  me  the 
truth,  that  there  was  a  young  hussy  and  children,  I  should 
have  understood  it  all.  Anything  seen  or  said  of  her  ?  No  ; 
and  the  less  the  better.  They  say  enough  of  ill  about  him 
without  that.  But  since  that  was  the  reason  you  went  —  ” 
“No,  dear  cousin,”  said  Komola,  interrupting  her  earnestly, 
“pray  do  not  talk  so.  I  wish  above  all  things  to  find  that 
young  woman  and  her  children,  and  to  take  care  of  them. 
They  are  quite  helpless.  Say  nothing  against  it ;  that  is  the 
thing  I  shall  do  first  of  all.” 

“Well,”  said  Monna  Brigida,  shrugging  her  shoulders  and 
lowering  her  voice  with  an  air  of  puzzled  discomfiture,  “  if 
that ’s  being  a  Piagnone,  I ’ve  been  taking  peas  for  pater¬ 
nosters.  Why,  Fra  Girolamo  said  as  good  as  that  widows 
ought  not  to  marry  again.  Step  in  at  the  door  and  it ’s  a  sin 
and  a  shame,  it  seems ;  but  come  down  the  chimney  and  you  ’re 
welcome.  Two  children  —  Santiddio  !  ” 

“  Cousin,  the  poor  thing  has  done  no  conscious  wrong :  she 
is  ignorant  of  everything.  I  will  tell  you  —  but  not  now.” 

Early  the  next  morning  Eomola’s  steps  were  directed  to 
the  house  beyond  San  Ambrogio  where  she  had  once  found 
Tessa ;  but  it  was  as  she  had  feared :  Tessa  was  gone.  Eo- 
mola  conjectured  that  Tito  had  sent  her  away  beforehand  to 
some  spot  where  he  had  intended  to  join  her,  for  she  did  not 
believe  that  he  would  willingly  part  with  those  children.  It 
was  a  painful  conjecture,  because,  if  Tessa  were  out  of  Flor¬ 
ence,  there  was  hardly  a  chance  of  finding  her,  and  Eomola 
pictured  the  childish  creature  waiting  and  waiting  at  some 


MEETING  AGAIN. 


193 


wayside  spot  in  wondering,  helpless  misery.  Those  who  lived 
near  could  tell  her  nothing  except  that  old  deaf  Lisa  had  gone 
away  a  week  ago  with  her  goods,  but  no  one  knew  where 
Tessa  had  gone.  Eomola  saw  no  further  active  search  open  to 
her ;  for  she  had  no  knowledge  that  could  serve  as  a  starting- 
point  for  inquiry,  and  not  only  her  innate  reserve  but  a  more 
noble  sensitiveness  made  her  shrink  from  assuming  an  atti¬ 
tude  of  generosity  in  the  eyes  of  others  by  publishing  Tessa’s 
relation  to  Tito,  along  with  her  own  desire  to  find  her.  Many 
days  passed  in  anxious  inaction.  Even  under  strong  solicita¬ 
tion  from  other  thoughts  Eomola  found  her  heart  palpitating 
if  she  caught  sight  of  a  pair  of  round  brown  legs,  or  of  a  short 
woman  in  the  contadina  dress. 

She  never  for  a  moment  told  herself  that  it  was  heroism  or 
exalted  charity  in  her  to  seek  these  beings ;  she  needed  some¬ 
thing  that  she  was  bound  specially  to  care  for ;  she  yearned 
to  clasp  the  children  and  to  make  them  love  her.  This  at 
least  would  be  some  sweet  result,  for  others  as  well  as  herself, 
from  all  her  past  sorrow.  It  appeared  there  was  much  prop¬ 
erty  of  Tito’s  to  which  she  had  a  claim ;  but  she  distrusted 
the  cleanness  of  that  money,  and  she  had  determined  to  make 
it  all  over  to  the  State,  except  so  much  as  was  equal  to  the 
price  of  her  father’s  library.  This  would  be  enough  for  the 
modest  support  of  Tessa  and  the  children.  But  Monna  Brigida 
threw  such  planning  into  the  background  by  clamorously 
insisting  that  Eomola  must  live  with  her  and  never  forsake 
her  till  she  had  seen  her  safe  in  Paradise  —  else  why  had  she 
persuaded  her  to  turn  Piagnone  ?  —  and  if  Eomola  wanted  to 
rear  other  people’s  children,  she,  Monna  Brigida,  must  rear 
them  too.  Only  they  must  be  found  first. 

Eomola  felt  the  full  force  of  that  innuendo.  But  strong 
feeling  unsatisfied  is  never  without  its  superstition,  either  of 
hope  or  despair.  Eomola’s  was  the  superstition  of  hope : 
somehow  she  was  to  find  that  mother  and  the  children.  And 
at  last  another  direction  for  active  inquiry  suggested  itself. 
She  learned  that  Tito  had  provided  horses  and  mules  to  await 
him  in  San  Gallo ;  he  was  therefore  going  to  leave  Florence 
by  the  gate  of  San  Gallo,  and  she  determined,  though  without 


194 


ROMOLA. 


much  confidence  in  the  issue,  to  try  and  ascertain  from  the 
gatekeepers  if  they  had  observed  any  one  corresponding  to  the 
description  of  Tessa,  with  her  children,  to  have  passed  the  gates 
before  the  morning  of  the  9th  of  April.  Walking  along  the 
Via  San  Gallo,  and  looking  watchfully  about  her  through  her 
long  widow’s  veil,  lest  she  should  miss  any  object  that  might 
aid  her,  she  descried  Bratti  chaffering  with  a  customer.  That 
roaming  man,  she  thought,  might  aid  her  :  she  would  not  mind 
talking  of  Tessa  to  him.  But  as  she  put  aside  her  veil  and 
crossed  the  street  towards  him,  she  saw  something  hanging 
from  the  corner  of  his  basket  which  made  her  heart  leap  with 
a  much  stronger  hope. 

“  Bratti,  my  friend,”  she  said  abruptly,  “  where  did  you  get 
that  necklace  ?  ” 

“Your  servant.  Madonna,”  said  Bratti,  looking  round  at  her 
very  deliberately,  his  mind  not  being  subject  to  surprise. 
“  It ’s  a  necklace  worth  money,  but  I  shall  get  little  by  it,  for 
my  heart ’s  too  tender  for  a  trader’s ;  I  have  promised  to  keep 
it  in  pledge.” 

“Pray  tell  me  where  you  got  it;  — from  a  little  woman 
named  Tessa,  is  it  not  true  ?  ” 

“  Ah !  if  you  know  her,”  said  Bratti,  “  and  would  redeem  it 
of  me  at  a  small  profit,  and  give  it  her  again,  you ’d  be  doing 
a  charity,  for  she  cried  at  parting  with  it  —  you ’d  have  thought 
she  was  running  into  a  brook.  It ’s  a  small  profit  I  ’ll  charge 
you.  You  shall  have  it  for  a  florin,  for  I  don’t  like  to  be 
hard-hearted.” 

“  Where  is  she  ?  ”  said  Eomola,  giving  him  the  money,  and 
unclasping  the  necklace  from  the  basket  in  joyful  agitation. 

“Outside  the  gate  there,  at  the  other  end  of  the  Borgo, 
at  old  Sibilla  Manetti’s  :  anybody  will  tell  you  which  is  the 
house.” 

Eomola  went  along  with  winged  feet,  blessing  that  incident 
of  the  Carnival  which  had  made  her  learn  by  heart  the  appear¬ 
ance  of  this  necklace.  Soon  she  was  at  the  house  she  sought. 
The  young  woman  and  the  children  were  in  the  inner  room  — 
were  to  have  been  fetched  away  a  fortnight  ago  and  more  — 
had  no  money,  only  their  clothes,  to  pay  a  poor  widow  with 


MEETING  AGAIN.  195 

for  their  food  and  lodging.  But  since  Madonna  knew  them  — 
Romola  waited  to  hear  no  more,  but  opened  the  door. 

Tessa  was  seated  on  the  low  bed :  her  crying  had  passed  into 
tearless  sobs,  and  she  was  looking  with  sad  blank  eyes  at  the 
two  children,  who  were  playing  in  an  opposite  corner  —  Lillo 
covering  his  head  with  his  skirt  and  roaring  at  Ninna  to 
frighten  her,  then  peeping  out  again  to  see  how  she  bore  it. 
The  door  was  a  little  behind  Tessa,  and  she  did  not  turn  round 
when  it  opened,  thinking  it  was  only  the  old  woman :  expecta¬ 
tion  was  no  longer  alive.  Romola  had  thrown  aside  her  veil 
and  paused  a  moment,  holding  the  necklace  in  sight.  Then 
she  said,  in  that  pure  voice  that  used  to  cheer  her  father  — 

“  Tessa !  ” 

Tessa  started  to  her  feet  and  looked  round. 

“See,”  said  Romola,  clasping  the  beads  on  Tessa’s  neck, 
“God  has  sent  me  to  you  again.” 

The  poor  thing  screamed  and  sobbed,  and  clung  to  the  arms 
that  fastened  the  necklace.  She  could  not  speak.  The  two 
children  came  from  their  corner,  laid  hold  of  their  mother’s 
skirts,  and  looked  up  with  wide  eyes  at  Romola. 

That  day  they  all  went  home  to  Monna  Brigida’s,  in  the 
Borgo  degli  Albizzi.  Romola  had  made  known  to  Tessa  by 
gentle  degrees,  that  Naldo  could  never  come  to  her  again  :  not 
because  he  was  cruel,  but  because  he  was  dead. 

“  But  be  comforted,  my  Tessa,”  said  Romola.  “  I  am  come 
to  take  care  of  you  always.  And  we  have  got  Lillo  an*. 
Ninna.” 

Monna  Brigida’s  mouth  twitched  in  the  struggle  between  her 
awe  of  Romola  and  the  desire  to  speak  unseasonably. 

“  Let  be,  for  the  present,”  she  thought ;  “  but  it  seems  to  mo 
a  thousand  years  till  I  tell  this  little  contadina,  who  seems  not 
to  know  how  many  fingers  she ’s  got  on  her  hand,  who  Romola 
is.  And  I  will  tell  her  some  day,  else  she  ’ll  never  know  her 
place.  It ’s  all  very  well  for  Romola ;  —  nobody  will  call  thei? 
souls  their  own  when  she ’s  by ;  but  if  I ’m  to  have  this  puss 
faced  minx  living  in  my  house  she  must  be  humble  to  me.” 

However,  Monna  Brigida  wanted  to  give  the  children  toe 
many  sweets  for  their  supper,  and  confessed  to  Romola,  tb'^ 


196 


ROMOLA. 


last  thing  before  going  to  bed,  that  it  would  be  a  shame  not  to 
take  care  of  such  cherubs. 

“  But  you  must  give  up  to  me  a  little,  Romola,  about  their 
eating,  and  those  things.  For  you  have  never  had  a  baby,  and 
I  had  twins,  only  they  died  as  soon  as  they  were  born.” 


CHAPTER  LXXL 

THE  CONFESSION. 

When  Romola  brought  home  Tessa  and  the  children,  April 
was  already  near  its  close,  and  the  other  great  anxiety  on  her 
mind  had  been  wrought  to  its  highest  pitch  by  the  publication 
in  print  of  Fra  Girolamo’s  Trial,  or  rather  of  the  confessions 
drawn  from  him  by  the  sixteen  Florentine  citizens  commis¬ 
sioned  to  interrogate  him.  The  appearance  of  this  document, 
issued  by  order  of  the  Signoria,  had  called  forth  such  strong 
expressions  of  public  suspicion  and  discontent,  that  severe 
measures  were  immediately  taken  for  recalling  it.  Of  course 
there  were  copies  accidentally  mislaid,  and  a  second  edition, 
not  by  order  of  the  Signoria,  was  soon  in  the  hands  of  eager 
readers. 

Romola,  who  began  to  despair  of  ever  speaking  with  Fra 
Girolamo,  read  this  evidence  again  and  again,  desiring  to 
judge  it  by  some  clearer  light  than  the  contradictory  impres¬ 
sions  that  were  taking  the  form  of  assertions  in  the  mouths  of 
both  partisans  and  enemies. 

In  the  more  devout  followers  of  Savonarola  his  want  of 
constancy  under  torture,  and  his  retractation  of  prophetic 
claims,  had  produced  a  consternation  too  profound  to  be  at 
once  displaced  as  it  ultimately  was  by  the  suspicion,  which 
soon  grew  into  a  positive  datum,  that  any  reported  words  of 
his  which  were  in  inexplicable  contradiction  to  their  faith  in 
him,  had  not  come  from  the  lips  of  the  prophet,  but  from  the 
falsifying  pen  of  Ser  Ceccone,  that  notary  of  evil  repute,  who 


THE  CONFESSION. 


19T 


had  made  the  digest  of  the  examination.  But  there  were 
obvious  facts  that  at  once  threw  discredit  on  the  printed  docu¬ 
ment.  Was  not  the  list  of  sixteen  examiners  half  made  up 
of  the  prophet’s  bitterest  enemies  ?  Was  not  the  notorious 
Dolfo  Spini  one  of  the  new  Eight  prematurely  elected,  in 
order  to  load  the  dice  against  a  man  whose  ruin  had  been 
determined  on  by  the  party  in  power  ?  It  was  but  a  murder 
with  slow  formalities  that  was  being  transacted  in  the  Old 
Palace.  The  Signoria  had  resolved  to  drive  a  good  bargain 
with  the  Pope  and  the  Duke  of  Milan,  by  extinguishing  the 
man  who  was  as  great  a  molestation  to  vicious  citizens  and 
greedy  foreign  tyrants  as  to  a  corrupt  clergy.  The  Prate  had 
been  doomed  beforehand,  and  the  only  question  that  was 
pretended  to  exist  now  was,  whether  the  Kepublic,  in  return 
for  a  permission  to  lay  a  tax  on  ecclesiastical  property,  should 
deliver  him  alive  into  the  hands  of  the  Pope,  or  whether  the 
Pope  should  further  concede  to  the  Pepublic  what  its  dignity 
demanded  •—  the  privilege  of  hanging  and  burning  its  own 
prophet  on  its  own  piazza. 

Who,  under  such  circumstances,  would  give  full  credit  to 
this  so-called  confession  ?  If  the  Frate  had  denied  his  pro¬ 
phetic  gift,  the  denial  had  only  been  wrenched  from  him  by 
the  agony  of  torture  —  agony  that,  in  his  sensitive  frame, 
must  quickly  produce  raving.  What  if  these  wicked  exam¬ 
iners  declared  that  he  had  only  had  the  torture  of  the  rope 
and  pulley  thrice,  and  only  on  one  day,  and  that  his  confes¬ 
sions  had  been  made  when  he  was  under  no  bodily  coercion  — 
was  that  to  be  believed  ?  He  had  been  tortured  much  more ; 
he  had  been  tortured  in  proportion  to  the  distress  his  confes¬ 
sions  had  created  in  the  hearts  of  those  who  loved  him. 

Other  friends  of  Savonarola,  who  were  less  ardent  partisans, 
did  not  doubt  the  substantial  genuineness  of  the  confession, 
however  it  might  have  been  colored'^by  the  transpositions  and 
additions  of  the  notary  ;  but  they  argued  indignantly  that 
there  was  nothing  which  could  warrant  a  condemnation  to 
death,  or  even  to  grave  punishment.  It  must  be  clear  to  all 
impartial  men  that  ii  this  examination  represented  the  only 
evidence  against  the  Frate,  he  would  die,  not  for  any  crime, 


198 


ROMOLA. 


but  because  he  had  made  himself  inconvenient  to  the  Pope,  to 
the  rapacious  Italian  States  that  wanted  to  dismember  their 
Tuscan  neighbor,  and  to  those  unworthy  citizens  who  sought 
to  gratify  their  private  ambition  in  opposition  to  the  common 
weal. 

Not  a  shadow  of  political  crime  had  been  proved  against  himc 
Not  one  stain  had  been  detected  on  his  private  conduct :  his 
fellow-monks,  including  one  who  had  formerly  been  his  secre¬ 
tary  for  several  years,  and  who,  with  more  than  the  average 
culture  of  his  companions,  had  a  disposition  to  criticise  Fra 
Girolamo’s  rule  as  Prior,  bore  testimony,  even  after  the  shock 
of  his  retractation,  to  an  unimpeachable  purity  and  consistency 
in  his  life,  which  had  commanded  their  unsuspecting  venerar 
tion.  The  Pope  himself  had  not  been  able  to  raise  a  charge  of 
heresy  against  the  Frate,  except  on  the  ground  of  disobedience 
to  a  mandate,  and  disregard  of  the  sentence  of  excommuni¬ 
cation.  It  was  difficult  to  justify  that  breach  of  discipline  by 
argument,  but  there  was  a  moral  insurgence  in  the  minds  of 
grave  men  against  the  Court  of  Pome,  which  tended  to  con¬ 
found  the  theoretic  distinction  between  the  Church  and 
churchmen,  and  to  lighten  the  scandal  of  disobedience. 

Men  of  ordinary  morality  and  public  spirit  felt  that  the 
triumph  of  the  Frate’s  enemies  was  really  the  triumph  of 
gross  license.  And  keen  Florentines  like  Soderini  and  Piero 
Guicciardini  may  well  have  had  an  angry  smile  on  their  lips 
at  a  severity  which  dispensed  with  all  law  in  order  to  hang 
and  burn  a  man  in  whom  the  seductions  of  a  public  career 
had  warped  the  strictness  of  his  veracity ;  may  well  have 
remarked  that  if  the  Frate  had  mixed  a  much  deeper  fraud 
with  a  zeal  and  ability  less  inconvenient  to  high  personages, 
the  fraud  would  have  oeen  regarded  as  an  excellent  oil  for 
ecclesiastical  and  political  wheels. 

Nevertheless  such  shrl^wd  men  were  forced  to  admit  that, 
however  poor  a  figure  the  Florentine  government  made  in  its 
clumsy  pretence  of  a  judicial  warrant  for  what  had  in  fact 
been  predetermined  as  an  act  of  policy,  the  measures  of  the 
Pope  against  Savonarola  were  necessary  measures  of  self- 
defence.  Not  to  try  and  rid  himself  of  a  man  who  wanted  tc 


THE  CONFESSION. 


199 


stir  up  the  Powers  of  Europe  to  summon  a  General  Council 
and  depose  him,  would  have  been  adding  ineptitude  to  in¬ 
iquity.  There  was  no  denying  that  towards  Alexander  the 
Sixth  Savonarola  was  a  rebel,  and,  what  was  much  more,  a 
dangerous  rebel.  Florence  had  heard  him  say,  and  had  well 
understood  what  he  meant,  that  he  would  not  obey  the  devil. 
It  was  inevitably  a  life-and-death  struggle  between  the  Frate 
and  the  Pope ;  but  it  was  less  inevitable  that  Florence  should 
make  itself  the  Pope’s  executioner. 

Komola’s  ears  were  filled  in  this  way  with  the  suggestions 
of  a  faith  still  ardent  under  its  wounds,  and  the  suggestions 
of  worldly  discernment,  judging  things  according  to  a  very 
moderate  standard  of  what  is  possible  to  human  nature-.  She 
could  be  satisfied  with  neither.  She  brought  to  her  long 
meditations  over  that  printed  document  many  painful  observa¬ 
tions,  registered  more  or  less  consciously  through  the  years  of 
her  discipleship,  which  whispered  a  presentiment  that  Savon¬ 
arola’s  retractation  of  his  prophetic  claims  was  not  merely  a 
spasmodic  effort  to  escape  from  torture.  But,  on  the  other 
hand,  her  soul  cried  out  for  some  explanation  of  his  lapses 
wliich  would  make  it  still  possible  for  her  to  believe  that  the 
main  striving  of  his  life  had  been  pure  and  grand.  The  recent 
memory  of  the  selfish  discontent  which  had  come  over  her 
like  a  blighting  wind  along  with  the  loss  of  her  trust  in  the  man 
who  had  been  for  her  an  incarnation  of  the  highest  motives,  had 
produced  a  reaction  which  is  known  to  many  as  a  sort  of  faith 
that  has  sprung  up  to  them  out  of  the  very  depths  of  their 
despair.  It  was  impossible,  she  said  now,  that  the  negative 
disbelieving  thoughts  which  had  made  her  soul  arid  of  all 
good,  could  be  founded  in  the  truth  of  things  :  impossible  that 
it  had  not  been  a  living  spirit,  and  no  hollow  pretence,  which 
had  once  breathed  in  the  Prate’s  words,  and  kindled  a  new  life 
in  her.  Whatever  falsehood  there  had  been  in  him,  had  been 
a  fall  and  not  a  purpose  ;  a  gradual  entanglement  in  which  he 
struggled,  not  a  contrivance  encouraged  by  success. 

Looking  at  the  printed  confessions,  &he  saw  many  sentences 
which  bore  the  stamp  of  bungling  fabrication :  they  had  that 
emphasis  and  repetition  in  self-accusation  which  none  but  very 


200 


ROMOLA. 


low  hypocrites  use  to  their  fellow-men.  But  the  fact  that 
these  sentences  were  in  striking  opposition,  not  only  to  the 
character  of  Savonarola,  but  also  to  the  general  tone  of  the  con¬ 
fessions,  strengthened  the  impression  that  the  rest  of  the  text 
represented  in  the  main  what  had  really  fallen  from  his  lips 
Hardly  a  word  was  dishonorable  to  him  except  what  turned 
on  his  prophetic  annunciations.  He  was  unvarying  in  his 
statement  of  the  ends  he  had  pursued  for  Florence,  the  Church, 
and  the  world ;  and,  apart  from  the  mixture  of  falsity  in  that 
claim  to  special  inspiration  by  which  he  sought  to  gain  hold 
of  men’s  minds,  there  was  no  admission  of  having  used  un¬ 
worthy  means.  Even  in  this  confession,  and  without  expur¬ 
gation  of  the  notary’s  malign  phrases,  Fra  Girolamo  shone 
forth  as  a  man  who  had  sought  his  own  glory  indeed,  but 
sought  it  by  laboring  for  the  very  highest  end  —  the  moral 
welfare  of  men  —  not  by  vague  exhortations,  but  by  striving 
to  turn  beliefs  into  energies  that  would  work  in  all  the  details 
of  life. 

“  Everything  that  I  have  done,”  said  one  memorable  passage, 
which  may  perhaps  have  had  its  erasures  and  interpolations, 
I  have  done  with  the  design  of  being  forever  famous  in  the 
present  and  in  future  ages ;  and  that  I  might  win  credit  in 
Florence ;  and  that  nothing  of  great  import  should  be  done 
without  my  sanction.  And  when  I  had  thus  established  my 
position  in  Florence,  I  had  it  in  my  mind  to  do  great  things  in 
Italy  and  beyond  Italy,  by  means  of  those  chief  personages 
with  whom  I  had  contracted  friendship  and  consulted  on  high 
matters,  such  as  this  of  the  General  Council.  And  in  propor¬ 
tion  as  my  first  efforts  succeeded,  I  should  have  adopted 
further  measures.  Above  all,  when  the  General  Council  had 
once  been  brought  about,  I  intended  to  rouse  the  princes  of 
Christendom,  and  especially  those  beyond  the  borders  of  Italy, 
to  subdue  the  infidels.  It  was  not  much  in  my  thoughts  to 
get  myself  made  a  Cardinal  or  Pope,  for  when  I  should  have 
achieved  the  work  I  had  in  view,  I  should,  without  being 
Pope,  have  been  the  first  man  in  the  world  in  the  authority  I 
should  have  possessed,  and  the  reverence  that  would  have 
been  paid  me.  If  I  had  been  made  Pope,  I  would  not  have 


THE  CONFESSION. 


201 


refused  the  office  :  but  it  seemed  to  me  that  to  be  the  head  of 
that  work  was  a  greater  thing  than  to  be  Pope,  because  a  man 
without  virtue  may  be  Pope  ;  but  such  a  work  as  I  contemplated 
demanded  a  man  of  excellent  virtues.” 

That  blending  of  ambition  with  belief  in  the  supremacy  of 
goodness  made  no  new  tone  to  Eomola,  who  had  been  used  to 
hear  it  in  the  voice  that  rang  through  the  Duomo.  It  was  the 
habit  of  Savonarola’s  mind  to  conceive  great  things,  and  to 
feel  that  he  was  the  man  to  do  them.  Iniquity  should  be 
brought  low;  the  cause  of  justice,  purity,  and  love  should 
triumph  ;  and  it  should  triumph  by  his  voice,  by  his  work,  by 
his  blood.  In  moments  of  ecstatic  contemplation,  doubtless, 
the  sense  of  self  melted  in  the  sense  of  the  Unspeakable,  and 
in  that  part  of  his  experience  lay  the  elements  of  genuine  self- 
abasement  ;  but  in  the  presence  of  his  fellow-men  for  whom 
he  was  to  act,  pre-eminence  seemed  a  necessary  condition  of 
his  life. 

And  perhaps  this  confession,  even  when  it  described  a 
doubleness  that  was  conscious  and  deliberate,  really  implied 
no  more  than  that  wavering  of  belief  concerning  his  own  im¬ 
pressions  and  motives  which  most  human  beings  who  have 
not  a  stupid  inflexibility  of  self-confidence  must  be  liable  to 
under  a  marked  change  of  external  conditions.  In  a  life  where 
the  experience  was  so  tumultuously  mixed  as  it  must  have 
been  in  the  Prate’s,  what  a  possibility  was  opened  for  a  change 
of  self-judgment,  when,  instead  of  eyes  that  venerated  and 
knees  that  knelt,  instead  of  a  great  work  on  its  way  to  accom¬ 
plishment,  and  in  its  prosperity  stamping  the  agent  as  a 
cnosen  instrument,  there  came  the  hooting  and  the  spitting 
and  the  curses  of  the  crowd ;  and  then  the  hard  faces  of 
enemies  made  judges  ;  and  then  the  horrible  torture,  and  with 
the  torture  the  irrepressible  cry,  “  It  is  true,  what  you  would 
have  me  say  :  let  me  go  :  do  not  torture  me  again  :  yes,  yes, 
I  am  guilty.  0  God  !  Thy  stroke  has  reached  me  !  ” 

As  Eomola  thought  of  the  anguish  that  must  have  followed 
the  confession  —  whether,  in  the  subsequent  solitude  of  the 
prison,  conscience  retracted  or  confirmed  the  self-taxing  words 
—  that  anguish  seemed  to  be  pressing  on  her  own  heart  and 


202 


EOMOLA. 


urging  the  slow  bitter  tears.  Every  vulgar  self-ignorant  per¬ 
son  in  Florence  was  glibly  pronouncing  on  this  man’s  demerits, 
wdiile  he  was  knowing  a  depth  of  sorrow  whic’'.  can  only  be 
known  to  the  soul  that  has  loved  and  sought  the  most  perfect 
thing,  and  beholds  itself  fallen. 

She  had  not  then  seen — what  she  saw  afterwards  —  the  evi¬ 
dence  of  the  Frate’s  mental  state  after  he  had  had  thus  to  lay 
his  mouth  in  the  dust.  As  the  days  went  by,  the  reports  of 
new  unpublished  examinations,  eliciting  no  change  of  confes¬ 
sions,  ceased ;  Savonarola  was  left  alone  in  his  prison  and  al¬ 
lowed  pen  and  ink  for  a  while,  that,  if  he  liked,  he  might  use 
his  poor  bruised  and  strained  right  arm  to  write  with.  He 
wrote  ;  but  what  he  wrote  was  no  vindication  of  his  innocence, 
no  protest  against  the  proceedings  used  towards  him :  it  was 
a  continued  colloquy  with  that  divine  purity  with  which  he 
sought  complete  reunion ;  it  was  the  outpouring  of  self-abase¬ 
ment  it  was  one  long  cry  for  inward  renovation.  No  linger¬ 
ing  echoes  9f  the  old  vehement  self-assertion,  “  Look  at  my 
work,  for  it  is  good,  and  those  who  set  their  faces  against  it 
are  the  children  of  the  devil !  ”  The  voice  of  Sadness  tells 
him,  “  God  placed  thee  in  the  midst  of  the  people  even  as  if 
thou  hadst  been  one  of  the  excellent.  In  this  way  thou  hast 
taught  others,  and  hast  failed  to  learn  thyself.  Thou  hast 
cured  others  :  and  thou  thyself  hast  been  still  diseased.  Thy 
heart  was  lifted  up  at  the  beauty  of  thy  own  deeds,  and 
through  this  thou  hast  lost  thy  wisdom  and  art  become,  and 
shalt  be  to  all  eternity,  nothing.  .  .  .  After  so  many  benefits 
with  which  God  has  honored  thee,  thou  art  fallen  into  the 
depths  of  the  sea;  and  after  so  many  gifts  bestowed  on  thee, 
thou,  by  thy  pride  and  vainglory,  hast  scandalized  all  the 
world,”  And  when  Hope  speaks  and  argues  that  the  divine 
love  has  not  forsaken  him,  it  says  nothing  now  of  a  great  work 
to  be  done,  but  only  says,  “  Thou  art  not  forsaken,  else  why  is 
thy  heart  bowed  in  penitence  ?  That  too  is  a  gift.” 

There  is  no  jot  of  worthy  evidence  that  from  the  time  of  his 
imprisonment  to  the  supreme  moment,  Savonarola  thought  or 
spoke  of  himself  as  a  martyr.  The  idea  of  martyrdom  had 
been  to  him  a  passion  dividing  the  dream  of  the  future  with 


THE  LAST  SILENCE. 


203 


the  triumph  of  beholding  his  work  achieved.  And  now,  in 
place  of  both,  had  come  a  resignation  which  he  called  by  no 
glorifying  name. 

But  therefore  he  may  the  more  fitly  he  called  a  martyr  by  his 
fellow-men  to  all  time.  For  power  rose  against  him  not  because 
of  his  sins,  but  because  of  his  greatness  —  not  because  he 
sought  to  deceive  the  world,  but  oecause  he  sought  to  make  it 
noble.  And  through  that  greatness  of  his  he  endured  a  double 
agony ;  not  only  the  reviling,  and  the  torture,  and  the  death- 
throe,  but  the  agony  of  sinking  from  the  vision  of  glorious 
achievement  into  that  deep  shadow  where  he  could  only  say, 
“  I  count  as  nothing  :  darkness  encompasses  me :  yet  the  light 
I  saw  was  the  true  light.” 


CHAPTER  LXXII. 

THE  LAST  SILENCE. 

Romola  had  seemed  to  hear,  as  if  they  had  been  a  cry,  the 
words  repeated  to  her  by  many  lips  —  the  words  uttered  by 
Savonarola  when  he  took  leave  of  those  brethren  of  San  Marco 
who  had  come  to  witness  his  signature  of  the  confession: 
“  Pray  for  me,  for  God  has  withdrawn  from  me  the  spirit  of 
prophecy.” 

Those  words  had  shaken  her  with  new  doubts  as  to  the  mode 
in  which  he  looked  back  at  the  past  in  moments  of  complete 
self-possession.  And  the  doubts  were  strengthened  by  more 
piteous  things  still,  which  soon  reached  her  ears. 

The  19th  of  May  had  come,  and  by  that  day’s  sunshine  there 
had  entered  into  Florence  the  two  Papal  Commissaries,  charged 
with  the  completion  of  Savonarola’s  trial.  They  entered  amid 
the  acclamations  of  the  people,  calling  for  the  death  of  the 
Frate.  For  now  the  popular  cry  was,  ‘‘  It  is  the  Frate’s  decep¬ 
tion  that  has  brought  on  all  our  misfortunes ;  let  him  be  burned, 
and  all  things  right  will  be  done,  and  our  evils  wiU  cease.” 


204 


ROMOLA. 


The  next  day  it  is  well  certified  that  there  was  fresh  and 
fresh  torture  of  the  shattered  sensitive  frame ;  and  now,  at 
the  first  sight  of  the  horrible  implements,  Savonarola,  in  con¬ 
vulsed  agitation,  fell  on  his  knees,  and  in  brief  passionate 
words  retracted  his  confession,  declared  that  he  had  spoken 
falsely  in  denying  his  prophetic  gift,  and  that  if  he  suffered, 
he  would  suffer  for  the  truth — “The  things  that  I  have 
spoken,  I  had  them  from  God.” 

But  not  the  less  the  torture  was  laid  upon  him,  and  when 
he  was  under  it  he  was  asked  why  he  had  uttered  those 
retracting  words.  Men  were  not  demons  in  those  days,  and 
yet  nothing  but  confessions  of  guilt  were  held  a  reason  for 
release  from  torture.  The  answer  came :  “  I  said  it  that  I 
might  seem  good:  tear  me  no  more,  I  will  tell  you  the 
truth.” 

There  were  Florentine  assessors  at  this  new  trial,  and  those 
words  of  twofold  retractation  had  soon  spread.  They  filled 
Romola  with  dismayed  uncertainty. 

“But”  —  it  flashed  across  her  —  “there  will  come  a  moment 
when  he  may  speak.  When  there  is  no  dread  hanging  over 
him  but  the  dread  of  falsehood,  when  they  have  brought  him 
into  the  presence  of  death,  when  he  is  lifted  above  the  people, 
and  looks  on  them  for  the  last  time,  they  cannot  hinder  him 
from  speaking  a  last  decisive  word.  I  will  be  there.” 

Three  days  after,  on  the  23d  of  May,  1498,  there  was  again 
a  long  narrow  platform  stretching  across  the  great  piazza, 
from  the  Palazzo  Vecchio  towards  the  Tetta  de’  Pisani.  But 
there  was  no  grove  of  fuel  as  before :  instead  of  that,  there 
was  one  great  heap  of  fuel  placed  on  the  circular  area  which 
made  the  termination  of  the  long  narrow  platform.  And 
above  this  heap  of  fuel  rose  a  gibbet  with  three  halters  on  it ; 
a  gibbet  which,  having  two  arms,  still  looked  so  much  like  a 
cross  as  to  make  some  beholders  uncomfortable,  though  one 
arm  had  been  truncated  to  avoid  the  resemblance. 

On  the  marble  terrace  of  the  Palazzo  were  three  tribunals ; 
one  near  the  door  for  the  Bishop,  who  was  to  perform  the  cere¬ 
mony  of  degradation  on  Fra  Girolamo  and  the  two  brethren 
who  were  to  suffer  as  his  followers  and  accomplices ;  another 


THE  LAST  SILENCE. 


205 


for  the  Papal  Commissaries,  who  were  to  pronounae  them 
heretics  and  schismatics,  and  deliver  them  over  to  the  secular 
arm  ;  and  a  third,  close  to  Marzocco,  at  the  corner  of  the  ter¬ 
race  where  the  platform  began,  for  the  Gonfaloniere,  and  the 
Eight  who  were  to  pronounce  the  sentence  of  death. 

Again  the  piazza  was  thronged  with  expectant  faces  -.  again 
there  was  to  be  a  great  fire  kindled.  In  the  majority  of  the 
crowd  that  pressed  around  the  gibbet  the  expectation  was 
that  of  ferocious  hatred,  or  of  mere  hard  curiosity  to  behold 
a  barbarous  sight.  But  there  were  still  many  spectators  on 
the  wide  pavement,  on  the  roofs,  and  at  the  windows,  who,  in 
the  midst  of  their  bitter  grief  and  their  own  endurance  of 
insult  as  hypocritical  Piagnoni,  were  not  without  a  lingering 
hope,  even  at  this  eleventh  hour,  that  God  would  interpose, 
by  some  sign,  to  manifest  their  beloved  prophet  as  His  ser¬ 
vant.  And  there  were  yet  more  who  looked  forward  with 
trembling  eagerness,  as  Romola  did,  to  that  final  moment 
when  Savonarola  might  say,  “0  people,  I  was  innocent  of 
deceit.” 

Bomola  was  at  a  window  on  the  north  side  of  the  piazza, 
far  away  from  the  marble  terrace  where  the  tribunals  stood ; 
and  near  her,  also  looking  on  in  painful  doubt  concerning  the 
man  who  had  won  his  early  reverence,  was  a  young  Florentine 
of  two-and-twenty,  named  Jacopo  Nardi,  afterwards  to  deserve 
honor  as  one  of  the  very  few  who,  feeling  Fra  Girolamo’s  emi¬ 
nence,  have  written  about  him  with  the  simple  desire  to  be 
veracious.  He  had  said  to  Eomola,  with  respectful  gentle¬ 
ness,  when  he  saw  the  struggle  in  her  between  her  shuddering 
horror  of  the  scene  and  her  yearning  to  witness  what  might 
happen  in  the  last  moment  — 

Madonna,  there  is  no  need  for  you  to  look  at  these  cruel 
things.  I  will  tell  you  when  he  comes  out  of  the  Palazzo. 
Trust  to  me ;  I  know  what  you  would  see.” 

Eomola  covered  her  face,  but  the  hootings  that  seemed  to 
make  the  hideous  scene  still  visible  could  not  be  shut  out. 
At  last  her  arm  was  touched,  and  she  heard  the  words,  “  He 
comes.”  She  looked  towards  the  Palace,  and  could  see  Savon¬ 
arola  led  out  in  his  Dominican  garb ;  could  see  him  standing 


206 


ROMOLA. 


before  the  Bishop,  and  being  stripped  of  the  black  mantle,  the 
white  scapulary  and  long  white  tunic,  till  he  stood  in  a  close 
woollen  under-tunic,  that  told  of  no  sacred  office,  no  rank.  He 
had  been  degraded,  and  cut  oif  from  the  Church  Militant. 

The  baser  part  of  the  multitude  delight  in  degradations, 
apart  from  any  hatred ;  it  is  the  satire  they  best  understand. 
There  was  a  fresh  hoot  of  triumph  as  the  three  degraded 
brethren  passed  on  to  the  tribunal  of  the  Papal  Commissaries, 
who  were  to  pronounce  them  schismatics  and  heretics.  Did 
not  the  prophet  look  like  a  schismatic  and  heretic  now  ?  It 
is  easy  to  believe  in  the  damnable  state  of  a  man  who  stands 
stripped  and  degraded. 

Then  the  third  tribunal  was  passed  —  that  of  the  Florentine 
officials  who  were  to  pronounce  sentence,  and  among  whom, 
even  at  her  distance,  Romola  could  discern  the  odious  figure 
of  Dolfo  Spini,  indued  in  the  grave  black  lucco,  as  one  of  the 
Eight. 

Then  the  three  figures,  in  their  close  white  raiment,  trod 
their  way  along  the  platform,  amidst  yells  and  grating  tones 
of  insult. 

‘‘Cover  your  eyes,  Madonna,”  said  Jacopo  Nardi;  “Fra 
Girolamo  will  be  the  last.” 

It  was  not  long  before  she  had  to  uncover  them  again. 
Savonarola  was  there.  He  was  not  far  off  her  now.  He  had 
mounted  the  steps;  she  could  see  him  look  round  on  the 
multitude. 

But  in  the  same  moment  expectation  died,  and  she  only  saw 
what  he  was  seeing  —  torches  waving  to  kindle  the  fuel  be¬ 
neath  his  dead  body,  faces  glaring  with  a  yet  worse  light ;  she 
only  heard  what  he  was  hearing  —  gross  jests,  taunts,  and 
curses. 

The  moment  was  past.  Her  face  was  covered  again,  and 
she  only  knew  that  Savonarola’s  voice  had  passed  into  eternal 
silence. 


EPILOGUE. 


207 


EPILOGUE. 

On  the  evening  of  the  22d  of  May,  1509,  five  persons,  of 
whose  history  we  have  known  something,  were  seated  in  a 
liandsoine  upper  room  opening  on  to  a  loggia  which,  at  its 
right-hand  corner,  looked  all  along  the  Borgo  Pinti,  and  over 
the  city  gate  towards  Fiesole,  and  the  solemn  heights  be¬ 
yond  it. 

At  one  end  of  the  room  was  an  archway  opening  into  a  nar¬ 
row  inner  room,  hardly  more  than  a  recess,  where  the  light 
fell  from  above  on  a  small  altar  covered  with  fair  white  linen. 
Over  the  altar  was  a  picture,  discernible  at  the  distance  where 
the  little  party  sat  only  as  the  small  full-length  portrait  of  a 
Dominican  Brother.  For  it  was  shaded  from  the  light  above 
by  overhanging  branches  and  wreaths  of  flowers,  and  the  fresh 
tapers  below  it  were  unlit.  But  it  seemed  that  the  decoration 
of  the  altar  and  its  recess  was  not  complete.  For  part  of  the 
floor  was  strewn  with  a  confusion  of  flowers  and  green  boughs, 
and  among  them  sat  a  delicate  blue-eyed  girl  of  thirteen,  toss¬ 
ing  her  long  light-brown  hair  out  of  her  eyes,  as  she  made 
selections  for  the  wreaths  she  was  weaving,  or  looked  up  at 
her  mother’s  work  in  the  same  kind,  and  told  her  how  to  do  it 
with  a  little  air  of  instruction. 

For  that  mother  was  not  very  clever  at  weaving  flowers 
or  at  any  other  work.  Tessa’s  fingers  had  not  become  more 
adroit  with  the  years  —  only  very  much  fatter.  She  got  on 
slowly  and  turned  her  head  about  a  good  deal,  and  asked 
Ninna’s  opinion  with  much  deference  ;  for  Tessa  never  ceased 
to  be  astonished  at  the  wisdom  of  her  children.  She  still 
wore  her  contadina  gown :  it  was  only  broader  than  the  old 
one ;  and  there  was  the  silver  pin  in  her  rough  curly  brown 
hair,  and  round  her  neck  the  memorable  necklace,  with  a  red 
cord  under  it,  that  ended  mysteriously  in  her  bosom.  Her 


208 


ROMOLA. 


rounded  face  wore  even  a  more  perfect  look  of  childish  con¬ 
tent  than  in  her  younger  days  :  everybody  was  so  good  in  the 
world,  Tessa  thought ;  even  Monna  Brigida  never  found  fault 
with  her  now,  and  did  little  else  than  sleep,  which  was  an 
amiable  practice  in  everybody,  and  one  that  Tessa  liked  for 
herself. 

Monna  Brigida  was  asleep  at  this  moment,  in  a  straight- 
backed  arm-chair,  a  couple  of  yards  off.  Her  hair,  parting 
backward  under  her  black  hood,  had  that  soft  whiteness  which 
is  not  like  snow  or  anything  else,  but  is  simply  the  lovely 
whiteness  of  aged  hair.  Her  chin  had  sunk  on  her  bosom,  and 
her  hands  rested  on  the  elbow  of  her  chair.  She  had  not  been 
weaving  flowers  or  doing  anything  else  :  she  had  only  been 
looking  on  as  usual,  and  as  usual  had  fallen  asleep. 

The  other  two  figures  were  seated  farther  off,  at  the  wide 
doorway  that  opened  on  to  the  loggia.  Lillo  sat  on  the  ground 
with  his  back  against  the  angle  of  the  door-post,  and  his  long 
legs  stretched  out,  while  he  held  a  large  book  open  on  his 
knee,  and  occasionally  made  a  dash  with  his  hand  at  an  in¬ 
quisitive  fly,  with  an  air  of  interest  stronger  than  that  excited 
by  the  finely-printed  copy  of  Petrarch  which  he  kept  open  at 
one  place,  as  if  he  were  learning  something  by  heart. 

Eomola  sat  nearly  opposite  Lillo,  but  she  was  not  observing 
him.  Her  hands  were  crossed  on  her  lap  and  her  eyes  were 
fixed  absently  on  the  distant  mountains :  she  was  evidently 
unconscious  of  anything  around  her.  An  eager  life  had  left 
its  marks  upon  her  :  the  finely-moulded  cheek  had  sunk  a 
little,  the  golden  crown  was  less  massive ;  but  there  was  a 
placidity  in  Romola’s  face  which  had  never  belonged  to  it  in 
youth.  It  is  but  once  that  we  can  know  our  worst  sorrows, 
and  Romola  had  known  them  while  life  was  new. 

Absorbed  in  this  way,  she  was  not  at  first  aware  that  Lillo 
had  ceased  to  look  at  his  book,  and  was  watching  her  with  a 
slightly  impatient  air,  which  meant  that  he  wanted  to  talk  to 
her,  but  was  not  quite  sure  whether  she  would  like  that  enter¬ 
tainment  just  now.  But  persevering  looks  make  themselves 
felt  at  last.  Romola  did  presently  turn  away  her  eyes  from 
the  distance  and  met  Lillo’s  impatient  dark  gaze  with  a  brighter 


EPILOGUE. 


209 


and  brighter  smile.  He  shuffled  along  the  floor,  still  keeping 
the  book  on  his  lap,  till  he  got  close  to  her  and  lodged  his 
chin  on  her  knee. 

“  What  is  it,  Lillo  ?  ”  said  Romola,  pulling  his  hair  back 
from  his  brow.  Lillo  was  a  handsome  lad,  but  his  features 
were  turning  out  to  be  more  massive  and  less  regular  than  his 
father’s.  The  blood  of  the  Tuscan  peasant  was  in  his  veins. 

“  Mamma  Romola,  what  am  I  to  be  ?  ”  he  said,  well  con¬ 
tented  that  there  was  a  prospect  of  talking  till  it  would  be  too 
late  to  con  “  Spirto  gentil  ”  any  longer. 

“What  should  you  like  to  be,  Lillo?  You  might  be  a 
scholar.  My  father  was  a  scholar,  you  know,  and  taught  me 
a  great  deal.  That  is  the  reason  why  I  can  teach  you.” 

“Yes,”  said  Lillo,  rather  hesitatingly.  “But  he  is  old  and 
blind  in  the  picture.  Did  he  get  a  great  deal  of  glory  ?  ” 

“ISlot  much,  Lillo.  The  world  was  not  always  very  kind  to 
him,  and  he  saw  meaner  men  than  himself  put  into  higher 
places,  because  they  could  flatter  and  say  what  was  false. 
And  then  his  dear  son  thought  it  right  to  leave  him  and 
become  a  monk;  and  after  that,  my  father,  being  blind  and 
lonely,  felt  unable  to  do  the  things  that  would  have  made  his 
learning  of  greater  use  to  men,  so  that  he  might  still  have 
lived  in  his  works  after  he  was  in  his  grave.” 

“  I  should  not  like  that  sort  of  life,”  said  Lillo.  “  I  should 
like  to  be  something  that  would  make  me  a  great  man,  and 
very  happy  besides  —  something  that  would  not  hinder  me 
from  having  a  good  deal  of  pleasure.” 

“  That  is  not  easy,  my  Lillo.  It  is  only  a  poor  sort  of  hap¬ 
piness  that  could  ever  come  by  caring  very  much  about  our 
own  narrow  pleasures.  We  can  only  have  the  highest  happi¬ 
ness,  such  as  goes  along  with  being  a  great  man,  by  having 
wide  thoughts,  and  much  feeling  for  the  rest  of  the  world  as 
well  as  ourselves  ;  and  this  sort  of  happiness  often  brings  so 
much  pain  with  it,  that  we  can  only  tell  it  from  pain  by  its 
being  what  we  would  choose  before  everything  else,  because 
our  souls  see  it  is  good.  There  are  so  many  things  wrong  and 
difficult  in  the  world,  that  no  man  can  be  great  —  he  can  hardly 
keep  himself  from  wickedness  —  unless  he  gives  up  thinking 

VOL.  VT  ~  52 


210 


ROMOLA. 


much  about  pleasure  or  rewards,  and  gets  strength  to  endure 
what  is  hard  and  painful.  My  father  had  the  greatness  that 
belongs  to  integrity  ;  he  chose  poverty  and  obscurity  rather 
than  falsehood.  And  there  was  Fra  Girolamo  —  you  know 
why  I  keep  to-morrow  sacred  :  he  had  the  greatness  which  be¬ 
longs  to  a  life  spent  in  struggling  against  powerful  wrong,  and 
in  trying  to  raise  men  to  the  highest  deeds  they 'are  capable  of. 
And  so,  my  Lillo,  if  you  mean  to  act  nobly  and  seek  to  know 
the  best  things  God  has  put  within  reach  of  men,  you  must 
learn  to  fix  your  mind  on  that  end,  and  not  on  what  will  hap¬ 
pen  to  you  because  of  it.  And  remember,  if  you  were  to 
choose  something  lower,  and  make  it  the  rule  of  your  life  to 
seek  your  own  pleasure  and  escape  from  what  is  disagreeable, 
calamity  might  come  just  the  same  ;  and  it  would  be  calamity 
falling  on  a  base  mind,  which  is  the  one  form  of  sorrow  that 
has  no  balm  in  it,  and  that  may  well  make  a  man  say,  — 
‘  It  would  have  been  better  for  me  if  I  had  never  been  born.’ 
I  will  tell  you  something,  Lillo.” 

Romola  paused  for  a  moment.  She  had  taken  Lillo’s  cheeks 
between  her  hands,  and  his  young  eyes  were  meeting  hers. 

“  There  was  a  man  to  whom  I  was  very  near,  so  that  I  could 
see  a  great  deal  of  his  life,  who  made  almost  every  one  fond  of 
him,  for  he  was  young,  and  clever,  and  beautiful,  and  his  man¬ 
ners  to  all  were  gentle  and  kind.  I  believe,  when  I  first  knew 
him,  he  never  thought  of  anything  cruel  or  base.  But  because 
he  tried  to  slip  away  from  everything  that  was  unpleasant, 
and  cared  for  nothing  else  so  much  as  his  own  safety,  he  came 
at  last  to  commit  some  of  the  basest  deeds  —  such  as  make 
men  infamous.  He  denied  his  father,  and  left  him  to  misery ; 
he  betrayed  every  trust  that  was  reposed  in  him,  that  he  might 
keep  himself  safe  and  get  rich  and  prosperous.  Yet  calamity 
overtook  him.” 

Again  Bomola  paused.  Her  voice  was  unsteady,  and  Lillo 
was  looking  up  at  her  with  awed  wonder. 

“  Another  time,  my  Lillo  —  I  will  tell  you  another  time. 
See,  there  are  our  old  Piero  di  Cosimo  and  Hello  coming  up 
the  Borgo  Pinti,  bringing  us  their  flowers.  Let  us  go  and 
wave  our  hands  to  them,  that  they  may  know  we  see  them.” 


EPILOGUE. 


211 


“  How  queer  old  Piero  is  !  ”  said  Lillo,  as  they  stood  at  the 
corner  of  the  loggia,  watching  the  advancing  figures.  “He 
abuses  you  for  dressing  the  altar,  and  thinking  so  much  of  Pra 
Girolamo,  and  yet  he  brings  you  the  flowers.” 

“Never  mind,”  said  Eomola.  “There  are  many  good  peo¬ 
ple  who  did  not  love  Fra  Girolamo.  Perhaps  I  should  never 
have  learned  to  love  him  if  he  had  not  nelped  me  when  I  was 
in  great  need.” 


Su,AS  jMarnkr  and  Eppie 


SILAS  M  A  R  N  E  R, 

rtli!.  WEAVER  OF  RAVELOE 


A  child,  more  than  all  other  gifts 
That  earth  can  offer  to  declining  man, 

Brings  hope  with  it,  and  forward-looking  thoughts. 

WOKPSWOKTH. 


SILAS  MARNEK: 

THE  WEAVER  OF  EAVELOE. 
- ♦  ■ 


PAET  I. 


CHAPTER  I. 

In  the  days  when  the  spinning-wheels  hummed  busily  in 
the  farmhouses  —  and  even  great  ladies,  clothed  in  silk  and 
thread-lace,  had  their  toy  spinning-wheels  of  polished  oak  — 
there  might  be  seen  in  districts  far  away  among  the  lanes,  or 
deep  in  the  bosom  of  the  hills,  certain  pallid  undersized  men, 
who,  by  the  side  of  the  brawny  country-folk,  looked  like  the 
remnants  of  a  disinherited  race.  The  shepherd’s  dog  barked 
fiercely  when  one  of  these  alien-looking  men  appeared  on  the 
upland,  dark  against  the  early  winter  sunset ;  for  what  dog 
likes  a  figure  bent  under  a  heavy  bag  ?  —  and  these  pale  men 
rarely  stirred  abroad  without  that  mysterious  burden.  The 
shepherd  himself,  though  he  had  good  reason  to  believe  that 
the  bag  held  nothing  but  flaxen  thread,  or  else  the  long  rolls 
of  strong  linen  spun  from  that  thread,  was  not  quite  sure  that 
this  trade  of  weaving,  indispensable  though  it  was,  could  be 
carried  on  entirely  without  the  help  of  the  Evil  One.  In  that 
far-off  time  superstition  clung  easily  round  every  person  or 
thing  that  was  at  all  unwonted,  or  even  intermittent  and  occa¬ 
sional  merely,  like  the  visits  of  the  pedler  or  the  knife- 
grinder.  No  one  knew  where  wandering  men  had  their  homes 
or  their  origin ;  and  how  was  a  man  to  be  explained  unless 
you  at  least  knew  somebody  who  knew  his  father  and  mother  ? 
To  the  peasants  of  old  times,  the  world  outside  their  own 


216 


SILAS  MAENER. 


direct  experience  was  a  region  of  vagueness  and  mystery :  to 
their  untravelled  thought  a  state  of  wandering  was  a  concep¬ 
tion  as  dim  as  the  winter  life  of  the  swallows  that  came  back 
with  the  spring ;  and  even  a  settler,  if  he  came  from  distant 
parts,  hardly  ever  ceased  to  be  viewed  with  a  remnant  of  dis¬ 
trust,  which  would  have  prevented  any  surprise  if  a  long 
course  of  inoffensive  conduct  on  his  part  had  ended  in  the 
commission  of  a  crime ;  especially  if  he  had  any  reputation 
for  knowledge,  or  showed  any  skill  in  handicraft.  All  clever¬ 
ness,  whether  in  the  rapid  use  of  that  difficult  instrument  the 
tongue,  or  in  some  other  art  unfamiliar  to  villagers,  was  in 
itself  suspicious  :  honest  folk,  born  and  bred  in  a  visible 
manner,  were  mostly  not  over  wise  or  clever  —  at  least,  not 
beyond  such  a  matter  as  knowing  the  signs  of  the  weather ; 
and  the  process  by  which  rapidity  and  dexterity  of  any  kind 
were  acquired  was  so  wholly  hidden,  that  they  partook  of  the 
nature  of  conjuring.  In  this  way  it  came  to  pass  that  those 
scattered  linen-weavers  —  emigrants  from  the  town  into  the 
country  —  were  to  the  last  regarded  as  aliens  by  their  rustic 
neighbors,  and  usually  contracted  the  eccentric  habits  which 
belong  to  a  state  of  loneliness. 

In  the  early  years  of  this  century,  such  a  linen-weaver, 
named  Silas  Marner,  worked  at  his  vocation  in  a  stone  cottage 
that  stood  among  the  nutty  hedgerows  near  the  village  of 
Raveloe,  and  not  far  from  the  edge  of  a  deserted  stone-pit. 
The  questionable  sound  of  Silas’s  loom,  so  unlike  the  natural 
cheerful  trotting  of  the  winnowing-machine,  or  the  simpler 
rhythm  of  the  flail,  had  a  half-fearful  fascination  for  the 
Raveloe  boys,  who  would  often  leave  off  their  nutting  or 
birds’-nesting  to  peep  in  at  the  window  of  the  stone  cottage, 
counterbalancing  a  certain  awe  at  the  mysterious  action  of  the 
loom,  by  a  pleasant  sense  of  scornful  superiority,  drawn  from 
the  mockery  of  its  alternating  noises,  along  with  the  bent, 
tread-mill  attitude  of  the  weaver.  But  sometimes  it  happened 
that  Marner,  pausing  to  adjust  an  irregularity  in  his  thread, 
became  aware  of  the  small  scoundrels,  and,  though  chary  of 
his  time,  he  liked  their  intrusion  so  ill  that  he  would  descend 
from  his  loom,  and,  opening  the  door,  would  fix  on  them  a 


SILAS  MARNER. 


217 


gaze  that  was  always  enough  to  make  them  take  to  their  legs 
in  terror.  For  how  was  it  possible  to  believe  that  those  large 
brown  protuberant  eyes  in  Silas  Marner’s  pale  face  really  saw 
nothing  very  distinctly  that  was  not  close  to  them,  and  not 
rather  that  their  dreadful  stare  could  dart  cramp,  or  rickets, 
or  a  wry  mouth  at  any  boy  who  happened  to  be  in  the  rear  ? 
They  had,  perhaps,  heard  their  fathers  and  mothers  hint  that 
Silas  Marner  could  cure  folk’s  rheumatism  if  he  had  a  mind, 
and  add,  still  more  darkly,  that  if  you  could  only  speak  the 
devil  fair  enough,  he  might  save  you  the  cost  of  the  doctor. 
Such  strange  lingering  echoes  of  the  old  demon-worship  might 
perhaps  even  now  be  caught  by  the  diligent  listener  among 
the  gray-haired  peasantry ;  for  the  rude  mind  with  difficulty 
associates  the  ideas  of  power  and  benignity.  A  shadowy  con¬ 
ception  of  power  that  by  much  persuasion  can  be  induced  to 
refrain  from  inflicting  harm,  is  the  shape  most  easily  taken 
by  the  sense  of  the  Invisible  in  the  minds  of  men  who  have 
always  been  pressed  close  by  primitive  wants,  and  to  whom  a 
life  of  hard  toil  has  never  been  illuminated  by  any  enthu¬ 
siastic  religious  faith.  To  them  pain  and  mishap  present  a 
far  wider  range  of  possibilities  than  gladness  and  enjoyment : 
their  imagination  is  almost  barren  of  the  images  that  feed 
desire  and  hope,  but  is  all  overgrown  by  recollections  that  are 
a  perpetual  pasture  to  fear.  Is  there  anything  you  can 
fancy  that  you  would  like  to  eat  ?  ”  I  once  said  to  an  old 
laboring  man,  who  was  in  his  last  illness,  and  who  had  refused 
all  the  food  his  wife  had  offered  him.  “  No,”  he  answered, 
I  ’ve  never  been  used  to  nothing  but  common  victual,  and 
I  can’t  eat  that.”  Experience  had  bred  no  fancies  in  him  tiiat 
could  raise  the  phantasm  of  appetite. 

And  Eaveloe  was  a  village  where  many  of  the  old  echoes 
lingered,  undrowned  by  new  voices.  Not  that  it  was  one  of 
those  barren  parishes  lying  on  the  outskirts  of  civilization  — 
inhabited  by  meagre  sheep  and  thinly-scattered  shepherds : 
on  the  contrary,  it  lay  in  the  rich  central  plain  of  what  we 
are  pleased  to  call  Merry  England,  and  held  farms  which, 
speaking  from  a  spiritual  point  of  view,  paid  highly  desirable 
tithes.  But  it  was  nestled  in  a  snug  well-wooded  hollow,, 


218 


SILAS  MARNER. 


quite  an  hour’s  journey  ou  horseback  from  any  turnpike, 
where  it  was  never  reached  by  the  vibrations  of  the  coach- 
horn,  or  of  public  opinion.  It  was  an  important-looking  vih 
lage,  with  a  fine  old  church  and  large  churchyard  in  the  heart 
of  it,  and  two  or  three  large  brick-and-stone  homesteads,  with 
well-walled  orchards  and  ornamental  weathercocks,  standing 
close  upon  the  road,  and  lifting  more  imposing  fronts  than 
the  rectory,  which  peeped  from  among  the  trees  on  the  other 
side  of  the  churchyard  :  —  a  village  which  showed  at  once  the 
summits  of  its  social  life,  and  told  the  practised  eye  that 
there  was  no  great  park  and  manor-hoase  in  the  vicinity,  but 
that  there  were  several  chiefs  in  Eaveloe  who  could  farm 
badly  quite  at  their  ease,  drawing  enough  money  from  their 
bad  farming,  in  those  war  times,  to  live  in  a  rollicking  fashion, 
and  keep  a  jolly  Christmas,  Whitsun,  and  Easter  tide. 

It  was  fifteen  years  since  Silas  Marner  had  first  come  to 
Raveloe ;  he  was  then  simply  a  pallid  young  man,  with  promi¬ 
nent  short-sighted  brown  eyes,  whose  appearance  would  have 
had  nothing  strange  for  people  of  average  culture  and  experi¬ 
ence,  but  for  the  villagers  near  whom  he  had  come  to  settle  it 
had  mysterious  peculiarities  which  corresponded  with  the  ex¬ 
ceptional  nature  of  his  occupation,  and  his  advent  from  an 
unknown  region  called  ‘‘  North’ard.”  So  had  his  wmy  of  life  :  — 
he  invited  no  comer  to  step  across  his  door-sill,  and  he  never 
strolled  into  the  village  to  drink  a  pint  at  the  Rainbow,  or  to 
gossip  at  the  wheelwright’s :  he  sought  no  man  or  woman,  save 
for  the  purposes  of  his  calling,  or  in  order  to  supply  himself 
with  necessaries  j  and  it  was  soon  clear  to  the  Raveloe  lasses 
that  he  would  never  urge  one  of  them  to  accept  him  against 
her  will  —  quite  as  if  he  had  heard  them  declare  that  they 
would  never  marry  a  dead  man  come  to  life  again.  This  view 
of  Marner’s  personality  was  not  without  another  ground  than 
his  pale  face  and  unexampled  eyes ;  for  Jem  Rodney,  the  mole- 
catcher,  averred  that  one  evening  as  he  was  returning  home¬ 
ward  he  saw  Silas  Marner  leaning  against  a  stile  with  a  heavy 
bag  on  his  back,  instead  of  resting  the  bag  on  the  stile  as  a 
man  in  his  senses  would  have  done ;  and  that,  on  coming  up 
to  him,  he  saw  that  Marner’s  eyes  were  set  like  a  dead  man’s, 


SILAS  MARKER. 


219 


and  Re  spoke  to  him,  and  shook  him,  and  his  limbs  were  stiff, 
and  his  liands  clutched  the  bag  as  if  they ’d  been  made  of  iron  ; 
but  just  as  he  had  made  up  his  mind  that  the  weaver  was  dead, 
he  came  all  right  again,  like,  as  you  might  say,  in  the  winking 
of  an  eye,  and  said  “  Good-night,’^  and  walked  off.  All  this 
Jem  swore  he  had  seen,  more  by  token  that  it  was  the  very 
day  he  had  been  mole-catching  on  Squire  Cass’s  land,  down  by 
the  old  saw-pit.  Some  said  Marner  must  have  been  in  a  ‘‘  fit,” 
a  word  which  seemed  to  explain  things  otherwise  incredible ; 
but  the  argumentative  Mr.  Macey,  clerk  of  the  parish,  shook 
his  head,  and  asked  if  anybody  was  ever  known  to  go  off  in  a 
fit  and  not  fall  down.  A  fit  was  a  stroke,  was  n’t  it  ?  and  it 
was  in  the  nature  of  a  stroke  to  partly  take  away  the  use  of  a 
man’s  limbs  and  throw  him  on  the  parish,  if  he ’d  got  no  chil¬ 
dren  to  look  to.  ISTo,  no ;  it  was  no  stroke  that  would  let  a 
man  stand  on  his  legs,  like  a  horse  between  the  shafts,  and 
then  walk  off  as  soon  as  you  can  say  “  Gee  !  ”  But  there  might 
be  such  a  thing  as  a  man’s  soul  being  loose  from  his  body,  and 
going  out  and  in,  like  a  bird  out  of  its  nest  and  back ;  and  that 
was  how  folks  got  over-wise,  for  they  went  to  school  in  this 
shell-less  state  to  those  who  could  teach  them  more  than  their 
neighbors  could  learn  with  their  five  senses  and  the  parson. 
And  where  did  Master  Marner  get  his  knowledge  of  herbs 
from  —  and  charms  too,  if  he  liked  to  give  them  away  ?  Jem 
Rodney’s  story  was  no  more  than  what  might  have  been  ex¬ 
pected  by  anybody  who  had  seen  how  Marner  had  cured  Sally 
Oates,  and  made  her  sleep  like  a  baby,  when  her  heart  had 
been  beating  enough  to  burst  her  body,  for  two  months  and 
more,  while  she  had  been  under  the  doctor’s  care.  He  might 
cure  more  folks  if  he  would  ;  but  he  was  worth  speaking  fair, 
if  it  was  only  to  keep  him  from  doing  you  a  mischief. 

It  was  partly  to  this  vague  fear  that  Marner  was  indebted 
for  protecting  him  from  the  persecution  that  his  singularitic's 
might  have  drawn  upon  him,  but  still  more  to  the  fact  tliat. 
the  old  linen-weaver  in  the  neighboring  parish  of  Tarley  being 
dead,  his  handicraft  made  him  a  highly  welcome  settler  to  the 
richer  housewives  of  the  district,  and  even  to  the  more  provi¬ 
dent  cottagers,  who  had  their  little  stock  of  yarn  at  the  year’s 


220 


SILAS  MARNER. 


end.  Their  sense  of  his  usefulness  would  have  counteracted 
any  repugnance  or  suspicion  which  was  not  confirmed  by  a 
deficiency  in  the  quality  or  the  tale  of  the  cloth  he  wove  for 
them.  And  the  years  had  rolled  on  without  producing  any 
change  in  the  impressions  of  the  neighbors  concerning  Marner, 
except  the  change  from  novelty  to  habit.  At  the  end  of  fifteen 
years  the  Raveloe  men  said  just  the  same  things  about  Silas 
Marner  as  at  the  beginning :  they  did  not  say  them  quite  so 
often,  but  they  believed  them  much  more  strongly  when  they 
did  say  them.  There  was  only  one  important  addition  which 
the  years  had  brought :  it  was,  that  Master  Marner  had  laid 
by  a  fine  sight  of  money  somewhere,  and  that  he  could  buy  up 
“  bigger  men  ”  than  himself. 

But  while  opinion  concerning  him  had  remained  nearly  sta¬ 
tionary,  and  his  daily  habits  had  presented  scarcely  any  visible 
change.  Maimer’s  inward  life  had  been  a  history  and  a  meta¬ 
morphosis,  as  that  of  every  fervid  nature  must  be  when  it  has 
fled,  or  been  condemned  to  solitude.  His  life,  before  he  came 
to  Raveloe,  had  been  filled  with  the  movement,  the  mental 
activity,  and  the  close  fellowship,  which,  in  that  day  as  in 
this,  marked  the  life  of  an  artisan  early  incorporated  in  a 
narrow  religious  sect,  where  the  poorest  layman  has  the  chance 
of  distinguishing  himself  by  gifts  of  speech,  and  has,  at  the 
very  least,  the  weight  of  a  silent  voter  in  the  government  of 
his  community.  Marner  was  highly  thought  of  in  that  little 
hidden  world,  known  to  itself  as  the  church  assembling  in 
Lantern  Yard ;  he  was  believed  to  be  a  young  man  of  exem¬ 
plary  life  and  ardent  faith ;  and  a  peculiar  interest  had  been 
centred  in  him  ever  since  he  had  fallen,  at  a  prayer-meeting, 
into  a  mysterious  rigidity  and  suspension  of  consciousness, 
which,  lasting  for  an  hour  or  more,  had  been  mistaken  for 
death.  To  have  sought  a  medical  explanation  for  this  phe¬ 
nomenon  would  have  been  held  by  Silas  himself,  as  well  as  by 
his  minister  and  fellow-members,  a  wilful  self-exclusion  from 
the  spiritual  significance  that  might  lie  therein.  Silas  was 
evidently  a  brother  selected  for  a  peculiar  discipline ;  and 
though  the  effort  to  interpret  this  discipline  was  discouraged 
by  the  f  -^ence,  on  his  part,  of  any  spiritual  vision  during  his 


SILAS  MARNER. 


221 


outward  trance,  yet  it  was  believed  by  himself  and  others  that 
its  effect  was  seen  in  an  accession  of  light  and  fervor.  A  less 
truthful  man  than  he  might  have  been  tempted  into  the  subse¬ 
quent  creation  of  a  vision  in  the  form  of  resurgent  memory ; 
a  less  sane  man  might  have  believed  in  such  a  creation ;  but 
Silas  was  both  sane  and  honest,  though,  as  with  many  honest 
and  fervent  men,  culture  had  not  defined  any  channels  for  his 
sense  of  mystery,  and  so  it  spread  itself  over  the  proper  path¬ 
way  of  inquiry  and  knowledge.  He  had  inherited  from  his 
mother  some  acquaintance  with  medicinal  herbs  and  their 
preparation  —  a  little  store  of  wisdom  which  she  had  imparted 
to  him  as  a  solemn  bequest  —  but  of  late  years  he  had  had 
doubts  about  the  lawfulness  of  applying  this  knowledge,  be¬ 
lieving  that  herbs  could  have  no  efficacy  without  prayer,  and 
that  prayer  might  suffice  without  herbs ;  so  that  his  inherited 
delight  to  wander  through  the  fields  in  -search  of  foxglove  and 
dandelion  and  coltsfoot,  began  to  wear  to  him  the  character  of 
a  temptation. 

Among  the  members  of  his  church  there  was  one  young  man, 
a  little  older  than  himself,  with  whom  he  had  long  lived  in 
such  close  friendship  that  it  was  the  custom  of  their  Lantern 
Yard  brethren  to  call  them  David  and  Jonathan.  The  real 
name  of  the  friend  was  William  Dane,  and  he,  too,  was  re¬ 
garded  as  a  shining  instance  of  youthful  piety,  though  some¬ 
what  given  to  over-severity  towards  weaker  brethren,  and  to 
be  so  dazzled  by  his  own  light  as  to  hold  himself  wiser  than 
his  teachers.  But  whatever  blemishes  others  might  discern  in 
William,  to  his  friend’s  mind  he  was  faultless  ;  for  Marner  had 
one  of  those  impressible  self-doubting  natures  which,  at  an  in¬ 
experienced  age,  admire  imperativeness  and  lean  on  contradic¬ 
tion.  The  expression  of  trusting  simplicity  in  Marner’s  face, 
heightened  by  that  absence  of  special  observation,  that  defence¬ 
less,  deer-like  gaze  which  belongs  to  large  prominent  eyes, 
was  strongly  contrasted  by  the  self-complacent  suppression  of 
inward  triumph  that  lurked  in  the  narrow  slanting  eyes  and 
compressed  lips  of  William  Dane.  One  of  the  most  frequent 
topics  of  conversation  between  the  two  friends  was  Assurance 
of  salvation :  Silas  confessed  that  he  could  never  arrive  at  any- 


222 


SILAS  MAKNER. 


thing  higher  than  hope  mingled  with  fear,  and  listened  with 
longing  wonder  when  William  declared  that  he  had  possessed 
unshaken  assurance  ever  since,  in  the  period  of  his  conversion, 
he  had  dreamed  that  he  saw  the  words  calling  and  election 
sure  ”  standing  by  themselves  on  a  white  page  in  the  open 
Bible.  Such  colloquies  have  occupied  many  a  pair  of  pale- 
faced  weavers,  whose  unnurtured  souls  have  been  like  young 
winged  things,  fluttering  forsaken  in  the  twilight. 

It  had  seemed  to  the  unsuspecting  Silas  that  the  friendship 
had  suffered  no  chill  even  from  his  formation  of  another 
attachment  of  a  closer  kind.  For  some  months  he  had  been 
engaged  to  a  young  servant-woman,  waiting  only  for  a  little 
increase  to  their  mutual  savings  in  order  to  their  marriage ; 
and  it  was  a  great  delight  to  him  that  Sarah  did  not  object  to 
William’s  occasional  presence  in  their  Sunday  interviews.  It 
was  at  this  point  in  their  history  that  Silas’s  cataleptic  fit 
occurred  during  the  prayer-meeting ;  and  amidst  the  various 
queries  and  expressions  of  interest  addressed  to  him  by  his 
fellow-members,  William’s  suggestion  alone  jarred  with  the 
general  sympathy  towards  a  brother  thus  singled  out  for 
special  dealings.  He  observed  that,  to  him,  this  trance  looked 
more  like  a  visitation  of  Satan  than  a  proof  of  divine  favor, 
and  exhorted  his  friend  to  see  that  he  hid  no  accursed  thing 
within  his  soul.  Silas,  feeling  bound  to  accept  rebuke  and 
admonition  as  a  brotherly  office,  felt  no  resentment,  but  only 
pain,  at  his  friend’s  doubts  concerning  him ;  and  to  this  was 
soon  added  some  anxiety  at  the  perception  that  Sarah’s  man¬ 
ner  towards  him  began  to  exhibit  a  strange  fluctuation  be¬ 
tween  an  effort  at  an  increased  manifestation  of  regard  and 
involuntary  signs  of  shrinking  and  dislike.  He  asked  her  if 
she  wished  to  break  off  their  engagement;  but  she  denied 
this:  their  engagement  was  known  to  the  church,  and  had 
been  recognized  in  the  prayer-meetings  ;  it  could  not  be  broken 
off  without  strict  investigation,  and  Sarah  could  render  no 
reason  that  would  be  sanctioned  by  the  feeling  of  the  commu¬ 
nity.  At  this  time  the  senior  deacon  was  taken  dangerously 
ill,  and,  being  a  childless  widower,  he  was  tended  night  and 
day  by  some  of  the  younger  brethren  or  sisters.  Silas  fre- 


SILAS  MARNER. 


2^3 


quently  took  his  turn  in  the  night-watching  with  William,  the 
one  relieving  the  other  at  two  in  the  morning.  The  old  man, 
contrary  to  expectation,  seemed  to  be  on  the  way  to  recovery, 
when  one  night  Silas,  sitting  up  by  his  bedside,  observed  that 
his  usual  audible  breathing  had  ceased.  The  «andle  was  burn¬ 
ing  low,  and  he  had  to  lift  it  to  see  the  patient’s  face  dis¬ 
tinctly.  Examination  convinced  him  that  the  deacon  was 
dead  —  had  been  dead  some  time,  for  the  limbs  were  rigid. 
Silas  asked  himself  if  he  had  been  asleep,  and  looked  at  the 
clock :  it  was  already  four  in  the  morning.  How  was  it  that 
William  had  not  come  ?  In  much  anxiety  he  went  to  seek 
for  help,  and  soon  there  were  several  friends  assembled  in  the 
house,  the  minister  among  them,  while  Silas  went  away  to  his 
work,  wishing  he  could  have  met  William  to  know  the  reason 
of  his  non-appearance.  But  at  six  o’clock,  as  he  was  thinking 
of  going  to  seek  his  friend,  William  came,  and  with  him  the 
minister.  They  came  to  summon  him  to  Lantern  Yard,  to 
meet  the  church  members  there ;  and  to  his  inquiry  concern¬ 
ing  the  cause  of  the  summons  the  only  reply  was,  ‘‘You  will 
hear.”  Nothing  further  was  said  until  Silas  was  seated  in 
the  vestry,  in  front  of  the  minister,  with  the  eyes  of  those 
who  to  him  represented  God’s  people  fixed  solemnly  upon  him. 
Then  the  minister,  taking  out  a  pocket-knife,  showed  it  to 
Silas,  and  asked  him  if  he  knew  where  he  had  left  that  knife  ? 
Silas  said,  he  did  not  know  that  he  had  left  it  anywhere  out 
of  his  own  pocket  —  but  he  was  trembling  at  this  strange 
interrogation.  He  was  then  exhorted  not  to  hide  his  sin,  but 
to  confess  and  repent.  The  knife  had  been  found  in  the 
bureau  by  the  departed  deacon’s  bedside  —  found  in  the  place 
where  the  little  bag  of  church  money  had  lain,  which  the 
minister  himself  had  seen  the  day  before.  Some  hand  had 
removed  that  bag ;  and  whose  hand  could  it  be,  if  not  that  of 
the  man  to  whom  the  knife  belonged  ?  For  some  time  Silas 
was  mute  with  astonishment :  then  he  said,  “  God  will  clear 
me :  I  know  nothing  about  the  knife  being  there,  or  the  money 
being  gone.  Search  me  and  my  dwelling ;  you  will  find  noth¬ 
ing  but  three  pound  five  of  my  own  savings,  which  William 
Dane  knows  I  have  had  these  six  months.”  At  this  William 


224 


SILAS  MARNER. 


groaned,  but  the  minister  said,  The  proof  is  heavy  against 
you,  brother  Marner.  The  money  was  taken  in  the  night  last 
past,  and  no  man  was  with  our  departed  brother  but  you,  for 
William  Dane  declares  to  us  that  he  was  hindered  by  sudden 
sickness  from  going  to  take  his  place  as  usual,  and  you  your¬ 
self  said  that  he  had  not  come  ;  and,  moreover,  you  neglected 
the  dead  body.” 

“  I  must  have  slept,”  said  Silas.  Then  after  a  pause,  he 
added,  “  Or  I  must  have  had  another  visitation  like  that  which 
you  have  all  seen  me  under,  so  that  the  thief  must  have  come 
and  gone  while  I  was  not  in  the  body,  but  out  of  the  body. 
But,  I  say  again,  search  me  and  my  dwelling,  for  I  have  been 
nowhere  else.” 

The  search  was  made,  and  it  ended  —  in  William  Dane’s 
finding  the  well-known  bag,  empty,  tucked  behind  the  chest 
of  drawers  in  Silas’s  chamber !  On  this  William  exhorted  his 
friend  to  confess,  and  not  to  hide  his  sin  any  longer.  Silas 
turned  a  look  of  keen  reproach  on  him,  and  said,  “  William, 
for  nine  years  that  we  have  gone  in  and  out  together,  have 
you  ever  known  me  tell  a  lie  ?  But  God  will  clear  me.” 

“  Brother,”  said  William,  “  how  do  I  know  what  you  may 
have  done  in  the  secret  chambers  of  your  heart,  to  give  Satan 
an  advantage  over  you  ?  ” 

Silas  was  still  looking  at  his  friend.  Suddenly  a  deep  flush 
came  over  his  face,  and  he  was  about  to  speak  impetuously, 
when  he  seemed  checked  again  by  some  inward  shock,  that 
sent  the  flush  back  and  made  him  tremble.  But  at  last  he 
spoke  feebly,  looking  at  William. 

“  I  remember  now  —  the  knife  was  n’t  in  my  pocket.” 

William  said,  “  I  know  nothing  of  what  you  mean.”  The 
other  persons  present,  however,  began  to  inquire  where  Silas 
meant  to  say  that  the  knife  was,  but  he  would  give  no  further 
explanation :  he  only  said,  ‘‘  I  am  sore  stricken ;  I  can  say 
nothing.  God  will  clear  me.” 

On  their  return  to  the  vestry  there  was  further  deliberation. 
Any  resort  to  legal  measures  for  ascertaining  the  culprit  was 
contrary  to  the  principles  of  the  church  in  Lantern  Yard, 
according  to  which  prosecution  was  forbidden  to  Christians, 


SILAS  MARNER. 


225 


even  had  the  case  held  less  scandal  to  the  community.  But 
the  members  were  bound  to  take  other  measures  for  finding 
out  the  truth,  and  they  resolved  on  praying  and  drawing  lots. 
This  resolution  can  be  a  ground  of  surprise  only  to  those  who 
are  unacquainted  with  that  obscure  religious  life  which  has 
gone  on  in  the  alleys  of  our  towns.  Silas  knelt  with  his 
brethren,  relying  on  his  own  innocence  being  certified  by 
immediate  divine  interference,  but  feeling  that  there  was 
sorrow  and  mourning  behind  for  him  even  then  —  that  his 
trust  in  man  had  been  cruelly  bruised.  The  lots  declared  that 
Silas  Marner  was  guilty.  He  was  solemnly  suspended  from 
church-membership,  and  called  upon  to  render  up  the  stolen 
money  :  only  on  confession,  as  the  sign  of  repentance,  could 
he  be  received  once  more  within  the  folds  of  the  church. 
Marner  listened  in  silence.  At  last,  when  every  one  rose  to 
depart,  he  went  towards  William  Dane  and  said,  in  a  voice 
shaken  by  agitation  — 

“  The  last  time  I  remember  using  my  knife,  was  when  I  took 
it  out  to  cut  a  strap  for  you.  I  don’t  remember  putting  it  in 
my  pocket  again.  You  stole  the  money,  and  you  have  woven 
a  plot  to  lay  the  sin  at  my  door.  But  you  may  prosper,  for 
all  that :  there  is  no  just  God  that  governs  the  earth  right¬ 
eously,  but  a  God  of  lies,  that  bears  witness  against  the 
innocent.” 

There  was  a  general  shudder  at  this  blasphemy. 

William  said  meekly,  “  I  leave  our  brethren  to  judge  whether 
this  is  the  voice  of  Satan  or  not.  I  can  do  nothing  but  pray 
for  you,  Silas.” 

Poor  Marner  went  out  with  that  despair  in  his  soul  —  that 
shaken  trust  in  God  and  man,  which  is  little  short  of  madness 
to  a  loving  nature.  In  the  bitterness  of  his  wounded  spirit, 
he  said  to  himself,  She  will  cast  me  off  too.”  And  he  re¬ 
flected  that,  if  she  did  not  believe  the  testimony  against  him, 
her  whole  faith  must  be  upset  as  his  was.  To  people  accus¬ 
tomed  to  reason  about  the  forms  in  which  their  religious  feel¬ 
ing  has  incorporated  itself,  it  is  difficult  to  enter  into  that 
simple,  untaught  state  of  mind  in  which  the  form  and  the 
feeling  have  never  been  severed  by  an  act  of  reflection.  We 

16 


VOL.  VI. 


226 


SILAS  MAENER. 


are  apt  to  think  it  inevitable  that  a  man  in  Marner^s  position 
should  have  begun  to  question  the  validity  of  an  appeal  to  the 
divine  judgment  by  drawing  lots  ;  but  to  him  this  would  have 
been  an  effort  of  independent  thought  such  as  he  had  never 
known ;  and  he  must  have  made  the  effort  at  a  moment  when 
all  his  energies  were  turned  into  the  anguish  of  disappointed 
faith.  If  there  is  an  angel  who  records  the  sorrows  of  men  as 
well  as  their  sins,  he  knows  how  many  and  deep  are  the  sor¬ 
rows  that  spring  from  false  ideas  for  which  no  man  is 
culpable. 

Marner  went  home,  and  for  a  whole  day  sat  alone,  stunned 
by  despair,  without  any  impulse  to  go  to  Sarah  and  attempt  to 
win  her  belief  in  his  innocence.  The  second  day  he  took 
refuge  from  benumbing  unbelief,  by  getting  into  his  loom  and 
working  away  as  usual ;  and  before  many  hours  were  past, 
the  minister  and  one  of  the  deacons  came  to  him  with  the 
message  from  Sarah,  that  she  held  her  engagement  to  him  at 
an  end.  Silas  received  the  message  mutely,  and  then  turned 
away  from  the  messengers  to  work  at  his  loom  again.  In 
little  more  than  a  month  from  that  time,  Sarah  was  married 
to  William  Dane ;  and  not  long  afterwards  it  was  known  to 
the  brethren  in  Lantern  Yard  that  Silas  Marner  had  departed 
from  the  town. 


CHAPTER  IL 

Even  people  whose  lives  have  been  made  various  by  learn¬ 
ing,  sometimes  find  it  hard  to  keep  a  fast  hold  on  their  habi¬ 
tual  views  of  life,  on  their  faith  in  the  Invisible,  nay,  on  the 
sense  that  their  past  joys  and  sorrows  are  a  real  experience, 
when  they  are  suddenly  transported  to  a  new  land,  where  the 
beings  around  them  know  nothing  of  their  history,  and  share 
none  of  their  ideas  —  where  their  mother  earth  shows  another 
lap,  and  human  life  has  other  forms  than  those  on  which  their 
souls  have  been  nourished.  Minds  that  have  been  unhinged 


SILAS  MARNER. 


227 


from  their  old  faith  and  love;  have  perhaps  sought  this  Lethean 
influence  of  exile,  in  which  the  past  becomes  dreamy  because 
its  symbols  have  all  vanished,  and  the  present  too  is  dreamy 
because  it  is  linked  with  no  memories.  But  even  their  ex¬ 
perience  may  hardly  enable  them  thoroughly  to  imagine  what 
was  the  effect  on  a  simple  weaver  like  Silas  Marner,  when  he 
left  his  own  country  and  people  and  came  to  settle  in  Ravel oe. 
Nothing  could  be  more  unlike  his  native  town,  set  within  sight 
of  the  widespread  hillsides,  than  this  low,  wooded  region, 
where  he  felt  hidden  even  from  the  heavens  by  the  screening 
trees  and  hedgerows.  There  was  nothing  here,  when  he  rose 
in  the  deep  morning  quiet  and  looked  out  on  the  dewy  bram¬ 
bles  and  rank  tufted  grass,  that  seemed  to  have  any  relation 
with  that  life  centring  in  Lantern  Yard,  which  had  once  been 
to  him  the  altar-place  of  high  dispensations.  The  whitewashed 
walls ;  the  little  pews  where  well-known  figures  entered  with 
a  subdued  rustling,  and  where  first  one  well-known  voice  and 
then  another,  pitched  in  a  peculiar  key  of  petition,  uttered 
phrases  at  once  occult  and  familiar,  like  the  amulet  worn  on 
the  heart ;  the  pulpit  where  the  minister  delivered  unques¬ 
tioned  doctrine,  and  swayed  to  and  fro,  and  handled  the  book 
in  a  long-accustomed  manner ;  the  very  pauses  between  the 
couplets  of  the  hymn,  as  it  was  given  out,  and  the  recurrent 
swell  of  voices  in  song  :  these  things  had  been  the  channel  of 
divine  influences  to  Marner  —  they  were  the  fostering  home 
of  his  religious  emotions — they  were  Christianity  and  God’s 
kingdom  upon  earth.  A  weaver  who  finds  hard  words  in  his 
hymn-book  knows  nothing  of  abstractions ;  as  the  little  child 
knows  nothing  of  parental  love,  but  only  knows  one  face  and 
one  lap  towards  which  it  stretches  its  arms  for  refuge  and 
nurture. 

And  what  could  be  more  unlike  that  Lantern  Yard  world 
than  the  world  in  Raveloe  ?  —  orchards  looking  lazy  with  neg¬ 
lected  plenty  ;  the  large  church  in  the  wide  churchyard,  which 
men  gazed  at  lounging  at  their  own  doors  in  service-time  ;  the 
purple-faced  farmers  jogging  along  the  lanes  or  turning  in  at  the 
Rainbow ;  homesteads,  where  men  supped  heavily  and  slept  in 
the  light  of  the  evening  hearth,  and  where  women  seemed  to  be 


228 


SILAS  MARNER. 


laying  up  a  stock  of  linen  for  the  life  to  come.  There  were  no 
lips  in  Raveloe  from  which  a  word  could  fall  that  would  stir  Silas 
Marner’s  benumbed  faith  to  a  sense  of  pain.  In  the  early  ages 
of  the  world,  we  know,  it  was  believed  that  each  territory  was 
inhabited  and  ruled  by  its  own  divinities,  so  that  a  man  could 
cross  the  bordering  heights  and  be  out  of  the  reach  of  his  na¬ 
tive  gods,  whose  presence  was  confined  to  the  streams  and  the 
groves  and  the  hills  among  which  he  had  lived  from  his  birth. 
And  poor  Silas  was  vaguely  conscious  of  something  not  unlike 
the  feeling  of  primitive  men,  when  they  fled  thus,  in  fear  or 
in  sullenness,  from  the  face  of  an  unpropitious  deity.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  the  Power  he  had  vainly  trusted  in  among 
the  streets  and  at  the  prayer-meetings,  was  very  far  away  from 
this  land  in  which  he  had  taken  refuge,  where  men  lived  in 
careless  abundance,  knowing  and  needing  nothing  of  that  trust, 
which,  for  him,  had  been  turned  to  bitterness.  The  little  light 
he  possessed  spread  its  beams  so  narrowly,  that  frustrated  be¬ 
lief  was  a  curtain  broad  enough  to  create  for  him  the  blackness 
of  night. 

His  first  movement  after  the  shock  had  been  to  work  in  his 
loom ;  and  he  went  on  with  this  unremittingly,  never  asking 
himself  why,  now  he  was  come  to  Eaveloe,  he  worked  far  on 
into  the  night  to  finish  the  tale  of  Mrs.  Osgood’s  table-linen 
sooner  than  she  expected  —  without  contemplating  beforehand 
the  money  she  would  put  into  his  hand  for  the  work.  He 
seemed  to  weave,  like  the  spider,  from  pure  impulse,  without 
reflection.  Every  man’s  work,  pursued  steadily,  tends  in  this 
way  to  become  an  end  in  itself,  and  so  to  bridge  over  the  love¬ 
less  chasms  of  his  life.  Silas’s  hand  satisfied  itself  with  throw¬ 
ing  the  shuttle,  and  his  eye  with  seeing  the  little  squares  in 
the  cloth  complete  themselves  under  his  effort.  Then  there 
were  the  calls  of  hunger;  and  Silas,  in  his  solitude,  had  to 
provide  his  own  breakfast,  dinner,  and  supper,  to  fetch  his 
own  water  from  the  well,  and  put  his  own  kettle  on  the  fire  ; 
and  all  these  immediate  promptings  helped,  along  with  the 
weaving,  to  reduce  his  life  to  the  unquestioning  activity  of  a 
spinning  insect.  He  hated  the  thought  of  the  past ;  there  was 
nothing  that  called  out  his  love  and  fellowship  towards  the 


SILAS  MARNER. 


229 


strangers  he  had  come  among;  and  the  future  was  all  dark, 
for  there  was  no  Unseen  Love  that  cared  for  him.  Thought 
was  arrested  by  utter  bewilderment,  now  its  old  narrow  path¬ 
way  was  closed,  and  affection  seemed  to  have  died  under  the 
bruise  that  had  fallen  on  its  keenest  nerves. 

But  at  last  Mrs.  Osgood’s  table-linen  was  finished,  and  Silas 
was  paid  in  gold.  His  earnings  in  his  native  town,  where  he 
worked  for  a  wholesale  dealer,  had  been  after  a  lower  rate ;  he 
had  been  paid  weekly,  and  of  his  weekly  earnings  a  large  pro¬ 
portion  had  gone  to  objects  of  piety  and  charity.  Now,  for 
the  first  tim^e  in  his  life,  he  had  five  bright  guineas  put  into 
his  hand ;  no  man  expected  a  share  of  them,  and  he  loved  no 
man  that  he  should  offer  him  a  share.  But  what  were  the 
guineas  to  him  who  saw  no  vista  beyond  countless  days  of 
weaving  ?  It  was  needless  for  him  to  ask  that,  for  it  was 
pleasant  to  him  to  feel  them  in  his  palm,  and  look  at  their 
bright  faces,  which  were  all  his  own  :  it  was  another  element 
of  life,  like  the  weaving  and  the  satisfaction  of  hunger,  sub¬ 
sisting  quite  aloof  from  the  life  of  belief  and  love  from  which 
he  had  been  cut  off.  The  weaver’s  hand  had  known  the  touch 
of  hard-won  money  even  before  the  palm  had  grown  to  its  full 
breadth ;  for  twenty  years,  mysterious  money  had  stood  to 
him  as  the  symbol  of  earthly  good,  and  the  immediate  object 
of  toil.  He  had  seemed  to  love  it  little  in  the  years  when 
every  penny  had  its  purpose  for  him ;  for  he  loved  the  -purpose 
then.  But  now,  when  all  purpose  was  gone,  that  habit  of 
looking  towards  the  money  and  grasping  it  with  a  sense  of 
fulfilled  effort  made  a  loam  that  was  deep  enough  for  the  seeds 
of  desire  ;  and  as  Silas  walked  homeward  across  the  fields  in 
the  twilight,  he  drew  out  the  money  and  thought  it  was 
brighter  in  the  gathering  gloom. 

About  this  time  an  incident  happened  which  seemed  to  open 
a  possibility  of  some  fellowship  with  his  neighbors.  One  day, 
taking  a  pair  of  shoes  to  be  mended,  he  saw  the  cobbler’s  wife 
seated  by  the  tire,  suffering  from  the  terrible  symptoms  of 
heart-disease  and  dropsy,  which  he  had  witnessed  as  the  pre¬ 
cursors  of  his  mother’s  death.  He  felt  a  rush  of  pity  at  the 
mingled  sight  and  remembrance,  and,  recalling  the  relief  his 


230 


SILAS  MARNEK. 


mother  had  found  from  a  simple  preparation  of  foxglove,  he 
promised  Sally  Oates  to  bring  her  something  that  would  ease 
her,  since  the  doctor  did  her  no  good.  In  this  office  of  charity, 
Silas  felt,  for  the  first  time  since  he  had  come  to  Raveloe,  a 
sense  of  unity  between  his  past  and  present  life,  which  might 
have  been  the  beginning  of  his  rescue  from  the  insect-like 
existence  into  which  his  nature  had  shrunk.  But  Sally  Oates’s 
disease  had  raised  her  into  a  personage  of  much  interest  and 
importance  among  the  neighbors,  and  the  fact  of  her  having 
found  relief  from  drinking  Silas  Marner’s  “  stuff  ”  became  a 
matter  of  general  discourse.  When  Doctor  Kimble  gave  physic, 
it  was  natural  that  it  should  have  an  effect ;  but  when  a  weaver, 
who  came  from  nobody  knew  where,  worked  wonders  with  a 
bottle  of  brown  waters,  the  occult  character  of  the  process  was 
evident.  Such  a  sort  of  thing  had  not  been  known  since  the 
Wise  Woman  at  Tarley  died;  and  she  had  charms  as  well  as 
“  stuff  :  ”  everybody  went  to  her  when  their  children  had  fits. 
Silas  Marner  must  be  a  person  of  the  same  sort,  for  how  did 
he  know  what  would  bring  back  Sally  Oates’s  breath,  if  he 
did  n’t  know  a  fine  sight  more  than  that  ?  The  Wise  Woman 
had  words  that  she  muttered  to  herself,  so  that  you  could  n’t 
hear  what  they  were,  and  if  she  tied  a  bit  of  red  thread  round 
the  child’s  toe  the  while,  it  would  keep  off  the  water  in  the 
head.  There  were  women  in  Raveloe,  at  that  present  time, 
who  had  worn  one  of  the  Wise  Woman’s  little  bags  round  their 
necks,  and,  in  consequence,  had  never  had  an  idiot  child,  as 
Ann  Coulter  had.  Silas  Marner  could  very  likely  do  as  much, 
and  more  ;  and  now  it  was  all  clear  how  he  should  have  come 
from  unknown  parts,  and  be  so  “  comical-looking.”  But  Sally 
Oates  must  mind  and  not  tell  the  doctor,  for  he  would  be  sure 
to  set  his  face  against  Marner :  he  was  always  angry  about  the 
Wise  Woman,  and  used  to  threaten  those  who  went  to  her  that 
they  should  have  none  of  his  help  any  more. 

Silas  now  found  himself  and  his  cottage  suddenly  beset  by 
mothers  who  wanted  him  to  charm  away  the  whooping-cough, 
or  bring  back  the  milk,  and  by  men  who  wanted  stuff  against 
the  rheumatics  or  the  knots  in  the  hands  ;  and,  to  secure  them¬ 
selves  against  a  refusal,  the  applicants  brought  silver  in  their 


SILAS  MARNER. 


231 


palms.  Silas  might  have  driven  a  profitable  trade  in  charms 
as  well  as  in  his  small  list  of  drugs  ;  but  money  on  this  condi¬ 
tion  was  no  temptation  to  him  :  he  had  never  known  an  im¬ 
pulse  towards  falsity,  and  he  drove  one  after  another  away 
with  growing  irritation,  for  the  news  of  him  as  a  wise  man 
had  spread  even  to  Tarley,  and  it  was  long  before  people 
ceased  to  take  long  walks  for  the  sake  of  asking  his  aid.  But 
the  hope  in  his  wisdom  was  at  length  changed  into  dread,  for 
no  one  believed  him  when  he  said  he  knew  no  charms  and 
could  work  no  cures,  and  every  man  and  woman  who  had  an 
accident  or  a  new  attack  after  applying  to  him,  set  the  mis¬ 
fortune  down  to  Master  Marner’s  ill-will  and  irritated  glances. 
Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  his  movement  of  pity  towards  Sally 
Oates,  which  had  given  him  a  transient  sense  of  brotherhood, 
heightened  the  repulsion  between  him  and  his  neighbors,  and 
made  his  isolation  more  complete. 

Gradually  the  guineas,  the  crowns,  and  the  half-crowns, 
grev/  to  a  heap,  and  Marner  drew  less  and  less  for  his  own 
wants,  trying  to  solve  the  problem  of  keeping  himself  strong 
enough  to  work  sixteen  hours  a  day  on  as  small  an  outlay  as 
possible.  Have  not  men,  shut  up  in  solitary  imprisonment, 
found  an  interest  in  marking  the  moments  by  straight  strokes 
of  a  certain  length  on  the  wall,  until  the  growth  of  the  sum  of 
straight  strokes,  arranged  in  triangles,  has  become  a  mastering 
purpose  ?  Do  we  not  wile  away  moments  of  inanity  or  fatigued 
waiting  by  repeating  some  trivial  movement  or  sound,  until 
the  repetition  has  bred  a  want,  which  is  incipient  habit  ? 
That  will  help  us  to  understand  how  the  love  of  accumulating 
money  grows  an  absorbing  passion  in  men  whose  imaginations, 
even  in  the  very  beginning  of  their  hoard,  showed  them  no 
purpose  beyond  it.  Marner  wanted  the  heaps  of  ten  to  grow 
into  a  square,  and  then  into  a  larger  square  ;  and  every  added 
guinea,  while  it  was  itself  a  satisfaction,  bred  a  new  desire. 
In  this  strange  world,  made  a  hopeless  riddle  to  him,  he 
might,  if  he  had  had  a  less  intense  nature,  have  sat  weaving, 
weaving  —  looking  towards  the  end  of  his  pattern,  or  towards 
the  end  of  his  web,  till  he  forgot  tlie  riddle,  and  everything 
else  but  his  immediate  sensations  ;  but  the  money  had  come 


232 


SILAS  MARNER. 


to  mark  off  his  weaving  into  periods,  and  the  money  not  only 
grew,  but  it  remained  with  him.  He  began  to  think  it  was 
conscious  of  him,  as  his  loom  was,  and  he  would  on  no  ac¬ 
count  have  exchanged  those  coins,  which  had  become  his 
familiars,  for  other  coins  with  unknown  faces.  He  handled 
them,  he  counted  them,  till  their  form  and  color  were  like 
the  satisfaction  of  a  thirst  to  him ;  but  it  was  only  in  the 
night,  when  his  work  was  done,  that  he  drew  them  out  to 
enjoy  their  companionship.  He  had  taken  up  some  bricks  in 
his  floor  underneath  his  loom,  and  here  he  had  made  a  hole  in 
which  he  set  the  iron  pot  that  contained  his  guineas  and  silver 
coins,  covering  the  bricks  with  sand  whenever  he  replaced 
them.  Not  that  the  idea  of  being  robbed  presented  itself 
often  or  strongly  to  his  mind :  hoarding  was  common  in  coun¬ 
try  districts  in  those  days ;  there  were  old  laborers  in  the 
parish  of  Eaveloe  who  were  known  to  have  their  savings  by 
them,  probably  inside  their  flock-beds  ;  but  their  rustic  neigh¬ 
bors,  though  not  all  of  them  as  honest  as  their  ancestors  in 
the  days  of  King  Alfred,  had  not  imaginations  bold  enough  to 
lay  a  plan  of  burglary.  How  could  they  have  spent  the  money 
in  their  own  village  without  betraying  themselves  ?  They 
would  be  obliged  to  “  run  away  ”  —  a  course  as  dark  and 
dubious  as  a  balloon  journey. 

So,  year  after  year,  Silas  Marner  had  lived  in  this  solitude, 
his  guineas  rising  in  the  iron  pot,  and  his  life  narrowing  and 
hardening  itself  more  and  more  into  a  mere  pulsation  of  desire 
and  satisfaction  that  had  no  relation  to  any  other  being.  His 
life  had  reduced  itself  to  the  functions  of  weaving  and  hoard¬ 
ing,  without  any  contemplation  of  an  end  towards  which  the 
functions  tended.  The  same  sort  of  process  has  perhaps  been 
undergone  by  wiser  men,  when  they  have  been  cut  off  from 
faith  and  love  —  only,  instead  of  a  loom  and  a  heap  of  guineas, 
they  have  had  some  erudite  research,  some  ingenious  project, 
or  some  well-knit  theory.  Strangely  Marner’s  face  and  figure 
shrank  and  bent  themselves  into  a  constant  mechanical  rela¬ 
tion  to  the  objects  of  his  life,  so  that  he  produced  the  same 
sort  of  impression  as  a  handle  or  a  crooked  tube,  which  has 
no  meaning  standing  apart.  The  prominent  eyes  that  used  to 


SILAS  MARKER. 


283 


look  trusting  and  dreamy,  now  looked  as  if  they  had  been 
made  to  see  only  one  kind  of  thing  that  was  very  small,  like 
tiny  grain,  for  which  they  hunted  everywhere :  and  he  was  so 
withered  and  yellow,  that,  though  he  was  not  yet  forty,  the 
children  always  called  him  “  Old  Master  Marner.” 

Yet  even  in  this  stage  of  withering  a  little  incident  hap¬ 
pened,  which  showed  that  the  sap  of  affection  was  not  all  gone. 
It  was  one  of  his  daily  tasks  to  fetch  his  water  from  a  well  a 
couple  of  fields  off,  and  for  this  purpose,  ever  since  he  came  to 
Raveloe,  he  had  had  a  brown  earthenware  pot,  which  he  held 
as  his  most  precious  utensil  among  the  very  few  conveniences 
he  had  granted  himself.  It  had  been  his  companion  for 
twelve  years,  always  standing  on  the  same  spot,  always  lend¬ 
ing  its  handle  to  him  in  the  early  morning,  so  that  its  form 
had  an  expression  for  him  of  willing  helpfulness,  and  the 
impress  of  its  handle  on  his  palm  gave  a  satisfaction  mingled 
with  that  of  having  the  fresh  clear  water.  One  day  as  he  was 
returning  from  the  well,  he  stumbled  against  the  step  of  the 
stile,  and  his  brown  pot,  falling  with  force  against  the  stones 
that  overarched  the  ditch  below  him,  was  broken  in  three 
pieces.  Silas  picked  up  the  pieces  and  carried  them  home 
with  grief  in  his  heart.  The  brown  pot  could  never  be  of 
use  to  him  any  more,  but  he  stuck  the  bits  together  and 
propped  the  ruin  in  its  old  place  for  a  memorial. 

This  is  the  history  of  Silas  Marner,  until  the  fifteenth  year 
after  he  came  to  Eaveloe.  The  livelong  day  he  sat  in  his 
loom,  his  ear  filled  with  its  monotony,  his  eyes  bent  close  down 
on  the  slow  growth  of  sameness  in  the  brownish  web,  his 
muscles  moving  with  such  even  repetition  that  their  pause 
seemed  almost  as  much  a  constraint  as  the  holding  of  his 
breath.  But  at  night  came  his  revelry  :  at  night  he  closed  his 
shutters,  and  made  fast  his  doors,  and  drew  forth  his  gold. 
Long  ago  the  heap  of  coins  had  become  too  large  for  the  iron 
pot  to  hold  them,  and  he  had  made  for  them  two  thick  leather 
bags,  which  wasted  no  room  in  their  resting-place,  but  lent  them¬ 
selves  flexibly  to  every  corner.  How  the  guineas  shone  as 
they  came  pouring  out  of  the  dark  leather  mouths !  The 
silver  bore  no  large  proportion  in  amount  to  the  gold,  because 


234 


SILAS  MAKNER. 


the  long  pieces  of  linen  which  formed  his  chief  work  were 
always  partly  paid  for  in  gold,  and  out  of  the  silver  he  sup¬ 
plied  his  own  bodily  wants,  choosing  always  the  shillings  and 
sixpences  to  spend  in  this  way.  He  loved  the  guineas  best, 
but  he  would  not  change  the  silver  —  the  crowns  and  half- 
crowns  that  were  his  own  earnings,  begotten  by  his  labor;  he 
loved  them  all.  He  spread  them  out  in  heaps  and  bathed  his 
hands  in  them ;  then  he  counted  them  and  set  them  up  in 
regular  piles,  and  felt  their  rounded  outline  between  his 
thumb  and  fingers,  and  thought  fondly  of  the  guineas  that 
were  only  half  earned  by  the  work  in  his  loom,  as  if  they  had 
been  unborn  children  —  thought  of  the  guineas  that  were 
■tfoming  slowly  through  the  coming  years,  through  all  his  life, 
which  spread  far  away  before  him,  the  end  quite  hidden  by 
countless  days  of  weaving.  Ho  wonder  his  thoughts  were 
still  with  his  loom  and  his  money  when  he  made  his  journeys 
through  the  fields  and  the  lanes  to  fetch  and  carry  home  his 
work,  so  that  his  steps  never  wandered  to  the  hedge-banks 
and  the  lane-side  in  search  of  the  once  familiar  herbs  :  these 
too  belonged  to  the  past,  from  which  his  life  had  shrunk  away, 
like  a  rivulet  that  has  sunk  far  down  from  the  grassy  fringe 
of  its  old  breadth  into  a  little  shivering  thread,  that  cuts  a 
groove  for  itself  in  the  barren  sand. 

But  about  the  Christmas  of  that  fifteenth  year,  a  second 
great  change  came  over  Marner’s  life,  and  his  histor}^  became 
blent  in  a  singular  manner  with  the  life  of  his  neighbors. 


CHAPTER  HI. 

The  greatest  man  in  Raveloe  was  Squire  Cass,  who  lived  in 
the  large  red  house  with  the  handsome  flight  of  stone  steps 
in  front  and  the  high  stables  behind  it,  nearly  opposite  the 
church.  He  was  only  one  among  several  landed  parishioners, 
but  he  alone  was  honored  with  the  title  of  Squire ;  for  though 


SILAS  MARNER. 


235 


Mr.  Osgood’s  family  was  also  understood  to  be  of  timeless 
origin  —  the  Raveloe  imagination  having  never  ventured  back 
to  that  fearful  blank  when  there  were  no  Osgoods  —  still,  he 
merely  owned  the  farm  he  occupied;  whereas  Squire  Cass  had 
a  tenant  or  two,  who  complained  of  the  game  to  him  quite  as 
if  he  had  been  a  lord. 

It  was  still  that  glorious  war-time  which  was  felt  to  be  a 
peculiar  favor  of  Providence  towards  the  landed  interest,  and 
the  fall  of  prices  had  not  yet  come  to  carry  the  race  of  small 
squires  and  yeomen  down  that  road  to  ruin  for  which  extrava¬ 
gant  habits  and  bad  husbandry  were  plentifully  anointing 
their  wheels.  I  am  speaking  now  in  relation  to  Eaveloe  and 
the  parishes  that  resembled  it ;  for  our  old-fashioned  country 
life  had  many  different  aspects,  as  all  life  must  have  when  it 
is  spread  over  a  various  surface,  and  breathed  on  variously 
by  multitudinous  currents,  from  the  winds  of  heaven  to  the 
thoughts  of  men,  which  are  forever  moving  and  crossing  each 
other  with  incalculable  results.  Eaveloe  lay  low  among  the 
bushy  trees  and  the  rutted  lanes,  aloof  from  the  currents  of 
industrial  energy  and  Puritan  earnestness  :  the  rich  ate  and 
drank  freely,  accepting  gout  and  apoplexy  as  things  that  ran 
mysteriously  in  respectable  families,  and  the  poor  thought 
that  the  rich  were  entirely  in  the  right  of  it  to  lead  a  jolly 
life ;  besides,  their  feasting  caused  a  multiplication  of  orts, 
which  were  the  heirlooms  of  the  poor.  Betty  Jay  scented  the 
boiling  of  Squire  Cass’s  hams,  but  her  longing  was  arrested  by 
the  unctuous  liquor  in  which  they  were  boiled ;  and  when  the 
seasons  brought  round  the  great  merry-makings,  they  were 
regarded  on  all  hands  as  a  fine  thing  for  the  poor.  For  the 
Eaveloe  feasts  were  like  the  rounds  of  beef  and  the  barrels 
of  ale  —  they  were  on  a  large  scale,  and  lasted  a  good  while, 
especially  in  the  winter-time.  After  ladies  had  packed  uji 
their  best  gowns  and  top-knots  in  bandboxes,  and  had  incurred 
the  risk  of  fording  streams  on  pillions  with  the  precious  bur¬ 
den  in  rainy  or  snowy  weather,  when  there  was  no  knowing 
how  high  the  water  would  rise,  it  was  not  to  be  supposed 
that  they  looked  forward  to  a  brief  pleasure.  On  this  ground 
it  was  always  contrived  in  the  dark  seasons,  when  there  was 


236 


SILAS  MARNER. 


little  work  to  be  done,  and  tbe  hours  were  long,  that  several 
neighbors  should  keep  open  house  in  succession.  So  soon  as 
Squire  Cass’s  standing  dishes  diminished  in  plenty  and  fresh¬ 
ness,  his  guests  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  walk  a  little  higher 
up  the  village  to  Mr.  Osgood’s,  at  the  Orchards,  and  they 
found  hams  and  chines  uncut,  pork-pies  with  the  scent  of  the 
fire  in  them,  spun  butter  in  all  its  freshness  —  everything,  in 
fact,  that  appetites  at  leisure  could  desire,  in  perhaps  greater 
perfection,  though  not  in  greater  abundance,  than  at  Squire 
Cass’s. 

Por  the  Squire’s  wife  had  died  long  ago,  and  the  Eed  House 
was  without  that  presence  of  the  wife  and  mother  which  is  the 
fountain  of  wholesome  love  and  fear  in  parlor  and  kitchen ; 
and  this  helped  to  account  not  only  for  there  being  more  pro¬ 
fusion  than  finished  excellence  in  the  holiday  provisions,  but 
also  for  the  frequency  with  which  the  proud  Squire  conde¬ 
scended  to  preside  in  the  parlor  of  the  Rainbow  rather  than 
under  the  shadow  of  his  own  dark  wainscot;  perhaps,  also, 
for  the  fact  that  his  sons  had  turned  out  rather  ill.  Eaveloe 
was  not  a  place  where  moral  censure  was  severe,  but  it  was 
thought  a  weakness  in  the  Squire  that  he  had  kept  all  his 
sons  at  home  in  idleness ;  and  though  some  license  was  to  be 
allowed  to  young  men  whose  fathers  could  afford  it,  people 
shook  their  heads  at  the  courses  of  the  second  son,  Dunstan, 
commonly  called  Dunsey  Cass,  whose  taste  for  swopping  and 
betting  might  turn  out  to  be  a  sowing  of  something  worse 
than  wild  oats.  To  be  sure,  the  neighbors  said,  it  was  no 
matter  what  became  of  Dunsey  —  a  spiteful  jeering  fellow, 
who  seemed  to  enjoy  his  drink  the  more  when  other  people 
went  dry  —  always  provided  that  his  doings  did  not  bring 
trouble  on  a  family  like  Squire  Cass’s,  with  a  monument  in 
the  church,  and  tankards  older  than  King  George.  But  it 
would  be  a  thousand  pities  if  Mr.  Godfrey,  the  eldest,  a  fine 
open-faced  good-natured  young  man  who  was  to  come  into  the 
land  some  day,  should  take  to  going  along  the  same  road  with 
his  brother,  as  he  had  seemed  to  do  of  late.  If  he  went  on  in 
that  way,  he  would  lose  Miss  Nancy  Lammeter;  for  it  was 
well  known  that  she  had  looked  very  shyly  on  him  ever  since 


SILAS  MAKNER. 


237 


last  Whitsuntide  twelvemonth,  when  there  was  so  much  tails 
about  his  being  away  from  home  days  and  days  together. 
There  was  something  wrong,  more  than  common — that  was 
quite  clear ;  for  Mr.  Godfrey  did  n’t  look  half  so  fresh-colored 
and  open  as  he  used  to  do.  At  one  time  everybody  was  say¬ 
ing,  What  a  handsome  couple  he  and  Miss  Nancy  Lammeter 
would  make  !  and  if  she  could  come  to  be  mistress  at  the  Red 
House,  there  would  be  a  fine  change,  for  the  Lammeters  had 
been  brought  up  in  that  way,  that  they  never  suffered  a  pinch 
of  salt  to  be  wasted,  and  yet  everybody  in  their  household  had 
of  the  best,  according  to  his  place.  Such  a  daughter-in-law 
would  be  a  saving  to  the  old  Squire,  if  she  never  brought  a 
penny  to  her  fortune ;  for  it  was  to  be  feared  that,  notwith¬ 
standing  his  incomings,  there  were  more  holes  in  his  pocket 
than  the  one  where  he  put  his  own  hand  in.  But  if  Mr.  God¬ 
frey  did  n’t  turn  over  a  new  leaf,  he  might  say  “  Good-by  ”  to 
Miss  Nancy  Lammeter. 

It  was  the  once  hopeful  Godfrey  who  was  standing,  with 
his  hands  in  his  side-pockets  and  his  back  to  the  fire,  in  the 
dark  wainscoted  parlor,  one  late  November  afternoon  in  that 
fifteenth  year  of  Silas  Marner’s  life  at  Raveloe.  The  fading 
gray  light  fell  dimly  on  the  walls  decorated  with  guns,  whips, 
and  foxes’  brushes,  on  coats  and  hats  flung  on  the  chairs,  on 
tankards  sending  forth  a  scent  of  flat  ale,  and  on  a  half-choked 
fire,  with  pipes  propped  up  in  the  chimney-corners ;  signs  of 
a  domestic  life  destitute  of  any  hallowing  charm,  with  which 
the  look  of  gloomy  vexation  on  Godfrey’s  blond  face  was  in 
sad  accordance.  He  seemed  to  be  waiting  and  listening  for 
some  one’s  approach,  and  presently  the  sound  of  a  heavy  step, 
with  an  accompanying  whistle,  was  heard  across  the  large 
empty  entrance-hall. 

The  door  opened,  and  a  thick-set,  heavy-looking  young  man 
entered,  with  the  flushed  face  and  the  gratuitously  elated 
bearing  which  mark  the  first  stage  of  intoxication.  It  was 
Dunsey,  and  at  the  sight  of  him  Godfrey’s  face  parted  with 
some  of  its  gloom  to  take  on  the  more  active  expression  of 
hatred.  The  handsome  brown  spaniel  that  lay  on  the  hearth 
retreated  under  the  chair  in  the  chimney-corner. 


238 


SILAS  MARNER. 


“Well,  Master  Godfrey,  what  do  you  want  with  me  ?”  said 
Dunsey,  in  a  mocking  tone.  “You’re  my  elders  and  betters, 
you  know ;  I  was  obliged  to  come  when  you  sent  for  me.” 

“  Why,  this  is  what  I  want  —  and  just  shake  yourself  sober 
and  listen,  will  you  ?  ”  said  Godfrey,  savagely.  He  had  him¬ 
self  been  drinking  more  than  was  good  for  him,  trying  to  turn 
his  gloom  into  uncalculating  anger.  “I  want  to  tell  you,  I 
must  hand  over  that  rent  of  Fowler’s  to  the  Squire,  or  else 
tell  him  I  gave  it  you ;  for  he ’s  threatening  to  distrain  for  it, 
and  it  ’ll  all  be  out  soon,  whether  I  tell  him  or  not.  He  said, 
just  now,  before  he  went  out,  he  should  send  word  to  Cox  to 
distrain,  if  Fowler  didn’t  come  and  pay  up  his  arrears  this 
week.  The  Squire ’s  short  o’  cash,  and  in  no  humor  to  stand 
any  nonsense ;  and  you  know  what  he  threatened,  if  ever  he 
found  you  making  away  with  his  money  again.  So,  see  and 
get  the  money,  and  pretty  quickly,  will  you  ?  ” 

“  Oh !  ”  said  Dunsey,  sneeringly,  coming  nearer  to  his  brother 
and  looking  in  his  face.  “  Suppose,  now,  you  get  the  money 
yourself,  and  save  me  the  trouble,  eh  ?  Since  you  was  so 
kind  as  to  hand  it  over  to  me,  you  ’ll  not  refuse  me  the  kind¬ 
ness  to  pay  it  back  for  me :  it  was  your  brotherly  love  made 
you  do  it,  you  know.” 

Godfrey  bit  his  lips  and  clenched  his  fist.  “Don’t  come 
near  me  with  that  look,  else  I  ’ll  knock  you  down.” 

“  Oh  no,  you  won’t,”  said  Dunsey,  turning  away  on  his  heel, 
however.  “  Because  I ’m  such  a  good-natured  brother,  you 
know.  I  might  get  you  turned  out  of  house  and  home,  and 
cut  off  with  a  shilling  any  day.  I  might  tell  the  Squire  how 
his  handsome  son  was  married  to  that  nice  young  woman, 
Molly  Farren,  and  was  very  unhappy  because  he  could  n’t  live 
with  his  drunken  wife,  and  I  should  slip  into  your  place  as 
comfortable  as  could  be.  But  you  see,  I  don’t  do  it  —  I’m  so 
easy  and  good-natured.  You  ’ll  take  any  trouble  for  me. 
You  ’ll  get  the  hundred  pounds  for  me  — ■  I  know  you  will.” 

“  How  can  I  get  the  money  ?  ”  said  Godfrey,  quivering.  “  I 
have  n’t  a  shilling  to  bless  myself  with.  And  it ’s  a  lie  that 
you’d  slip  into  my  place:  you’d  get  yourself  turned  out  too, 
that ’s  all.  For  if  you  begin  telling  tales,  I  ’ll  follow.  Bob ’s 


SILAS  MARNER.  239 

my  father’s  favorite  —  you  know  that  very  well.  He ’d  only 
think  himself  well  rid  of  you.” 

‘‘Never  mind/’  said  Dunsey,  nodding  his  head  sideways  as 
he  looked  out  of  the  window.  “  It  ’ud  be  very  pleasant  to  me 
to  go  in  your  company  —  you’re  such  a  handsome  brother, 
and  we ’ve  always  been  so  fond  of  quarrelling  with  one  an¬ 
other,  I  should  n’t  know  what  to  do  without  you.  But  you ’d 
like  better  for  us  both  to  stay  at  home  together ;  I  know  you 
would.  So  you  ’ll  manage  to  get  that  little  sum  o’  money,  and 
I  ’ll  bid  you  good-by,  though  I ’m  sorry  to  part.” 

Dunstan  was  moving  off,  but  Godfrey  rushed  after  him  and 
seized  him  by  the  arm,  saying,  with  an  oath  — 

“  I  tell  you,  I  have  no  money  .  I  can  get  no  money.” 

“Borrow  of  old  Kimble.” 

“  I  tell  you,  he  won’t  lend  me  any  more,  and  I  shan’t  ask 
him.” 

“Well,  then,  sell  Wildfire.” 

“Yes,  that ’s  easy  talking.  I  must  have  the  money  directly.” 

“Well,  you’ve  only  got  to  ride  him  to  the  hunt  to-morrow. 
There’ll  be  Bryce  and  Keating  there,  for  sure.  You’ll  get 
more  bids  than  one.” 

“  I  daresay,  and  get  back  home  at  eight  o’clock,  splashed  up 
to  the  chin.  I ’m  going  to  Mrs.  Osgood’s  birthday  dance.” 

“  Oho !  ”  said  Dunsey,  turning  his  head  on  one  side,  and 
trying  to  speak  in  a  small  mincing  treble.  “And  there ’s  sweet 
Miss  Nancy  coming ;  and  we  shall  dance  with  her,  and  promise 
never  to  be  naughty  again,  and  be  taken  into  favor,  and  —  ” 

“Hold  your  tongue  about  Miss  Nancy,  you  fool,”  said  God¬ 
frey,  turning  red,  “  else  I  ’ll  throttle  you.” 

“  What  for  ?  ”  said  Dunsey,  still  in  an  artificial  tone,  but 
taking  a  whip  from  the  table  and  beating  the  butt-end  of  it  on 
his  palm.  “You’ve  a  very  good  chance.  I’d  advise  you  to 
creep  up  her  sleeve  again :  it  ’ud  be  saving  time,  if  Molly 
should  happen  to  take  a  drop  too  much  laudanum  some  day, 
and  make  a  widower  of  you.  Miss  Nancy  wouldn’t  mind 
being  a  second,  if  she  did  n’t  know  it.  And  you ’ve  got  a 
good-natured  brother,  who  ’ll  keep  your  secret  well,  because 
you  ’ll  be  so  very  obliging  to  him.” 


240 


SILAS  MARNER. 


“  I  ’ll  tell  you  what  it  is,”  said  Godfrey,  quivering,  and  pale 
again,  “  my  patience  is  pretty  near  at  an  end.  If  you ’d  a 
little  more  sharpness  in  you,  you  might  know  that  you  may 
urge  a  man  a  bit  too  far,  and  make  one  leap  as  easy  as  another. 
I  don’t  know  but  what  it  is  so  now :  I  may  as  well  tell  the 
Squire  everything  myself  —  I  should  get  you  off  my  back,  if 
I  got  nothing  else.  And,  after  all,  he  ’ll  know  some  time. 
She’s  been  threatening  to  come  herself  and  tell  him.  So, 
don’t  flatter  yourself  that  your  secrecy ’s  worth  any  price  you 
choose  to  ask.  You  drain  me  of  money  till  I  have  got  nothing 
to  pacify  her  with,  and  she  ’ll  do  as  she  threatens  some  day. 
It ’s  all  one.  I  ’ll  tell  my  father  everything  myself,  and  you 
may  go  to  the  devil.” 

Dunsey  perceived  that  he  had  overshot  his  mark,  and  that 
there  was  a  point  at  which  even  the  hesitating  Godfrey 
might  be  driven  into  decision.  But  he  said,  with  an  air  of 
unconcern  — 

“  As  you  please  ;  but  I  ’ll  have  a  draught  of  ale  first.”  And 
ringing  the  bell,  he  threw  himself  across  two  chairs,  and  began 
to  rap  the  window-seat  with  the  handle  of  his  whip. 

Godfrey  stood,  still  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  uneasily 
moving  his  fingers  among  the  contents  of  his  side-pockets,  and 
looking  at  the  floor.  That  big  muscular  frame  of  his  held 
plenty  of  animal  courage,  but  helped  him  to  no  decision  when 
the  dangers  to  be  braved  were  such  as  could  neither  be  knocked 
down  nor  throttled.  His  natural  irresolution  and  moral  cow¬ 
ardice  were  exaggerated  by  a  position  in  which  dreaded  conse¬ 
quences  seemed  to  press  equally  on  all  sides,  and  his  irritation 
had  no  sooner  provoked  him  to  defy  Dunstan  and  anticipate 
all  possible  betrayals,  than  the  miseries  he  must  bring  on  him¬ 
self  by  such  a  step  seemed  more  unendurable  to  him  than  the 
present  evil.  The  results  of  confession  were  not  contingent, 
they  were  certain ;  whereas  betrayal  was  not  certain.  From 
the  near  vision  of  that  certainty  he  fell  back  on  suspense  and 
vacillation  with  a  sense  of  repose.  The  disinherited  son  of  a 
small  squire,  equally  disinclined  to  dig  and  to  beg,  was  almost 
as  helpless  as  an  uprooted  tree,  which,  by  the  favor  of  earth 
and  sky,  has  grown  to  a  handsome  bulk  on  the  spot  where  it 


SILAS  MARNER, 


241 


first  shot  upward.  Perhaps  it  would  have  been  possible  to 
think  of  digging  with  some  cheerfulness  if  Nancy  Lammeter 
were  to  be  won  on  those  terms  ;  but,  since  he  must  irrevocably 
lose  her  as  well  as  the  inheritance,  and  must  break  every  tie 
but  the  one  that  degraded  him  and  left  him  without  motive 
for  trying  to  recover  his  better  self,  he  could  imagine  no  fu¬ 
ture  for  himself  on  the  other  side  of  confession  but  that  of 
’listing  for  a  soldier  ”  —  the  most  desperate  step,  short  of 
suicide,  in  the  eyes  of  respectable  families.  No !  he  would 
rather  trust  to  casualties  than  to  his  own  resolve  —  rather  go 
on  sitting  at  the  feast,  and  sipping  the  wine  he  loved,  though 
with  the  sword  hanging  over  him  and  terror  in  his  heart,  than 
rush  away  into  the  cold  darkness  where  there  was  no  pleasure 
left.  The  utmost  concession  to  Dunstan  about  the  horse  be¬ 
gan  to  seem  easy,  compared  with  the  fulfilment  of  his  own 
threat.  But  his  pride  would  not  let  him  recommence  the  con¬ 
versation  otherwise  than  by  continuing  the  quarrel.  Dunstan 
was  waiting  for  this,  and  took  his  ale  in  shorter  draughts  than 
usual. 

“  It ’s  just  like  you,”  Godfrey  burst  out,  in  a  bitter  tone, 
to  talk  about  my  selling  Wildfire  in  that  cool  way  —  the  last 
thing  I ’ve  got  to  call  my  own,  and  the  best  bit  of  horse-flesh 
I  ever  had  in  my  life.  And  if  you ’d  got  a  spark  of  pride  in 
you,  you ’d  be  ashamed  to  see  the  stables  emptied,  and  every¬ 
body  sneering  about  it.  But  it ’s  my  belief  you ’d  sell  your¬ 
self,  if  it  was  only  for  the  pleasure  of  making  somebody  feel 
he ’d  got  a  bad  bargain.” 

“Ay,  ay,”  said  Dunstan,  very  placably,  “you  do  me  justice, 
I  see.  You  know  I ’m  a  jewel  for  ’ticing  people  into  bargains. 
For  which  reason  I  advise  you  to  let  me  sell  Wildfire.  I ’d 
ride  him  to  the  hunt  to-morrow  for  you,  with  pleasure.  I 
should  n’t  look  so  handsome  as  you  in  the  saddle,  but  it ’s  tb« 
horse  they  ’ll  bid  for,  and  not  the  rider.” 

“Yes,  I  daresay —  trust  my  horse  to  you  !  ” 

“  As  you  please,”  said  Dunstan,  rapping  the  window-seat 
again  with  an  air  of  great  unconcern.  “It’s  yo'ti  have  got  to 
pay  Fowler’s  money ;  it ’s  none  of  my  business.  You  received 
the  money  from  him  when  you  went  to  Bramcote,  and  yon 

VOL.  VI.  16 


242 


SILAS  MARKER. 


told  the  Squire  it  was  n’t  paid.  I ’d  nothing  to  do  with  that  j 
you  chose  to  be  so  obliging  as  to  give  it  me,  that  was  all.  If 
you  don’t  want  to  pay  the  money,  let  it  alone  ;  it’s  all  one  to 
me.  But  I  was  willing  to  accommodate  you  by  undertaking 
to  sell  the  horse,  seeing  it ’s  not  convenient  to  you  to  go  so  far 
to-morrow.” 

Godfrey  was  silent  for  some  moments.  He  would  have  liked 
to  spring  on  Dunstan,  wrench  the  whip  from  his  hand,  and 
flog  him  to  within  an  inch  of  his  life ;  and  no  bodily  fear  could 
have  deterred  him  ;  but  he  was  mastered  by  another  sort  of 
fear,  which  was  fed  by  feelings  stronger  even  than  his  resent¬ 
ment.  When  he  spoke  again  it  was  in  a  half-conciliatory  tone. 

‘‘  Well,  you  mean  no  nonsense  about  the  horse,  eh?  You’ll 
sell  him  all  fair,  and  hand  over  the  money  ?  If  you  don’t, 
you  know,  everything  ’uH  go  to  smash,  for  I ’ve  got  nothing 
else  to  trust  to.  And  you  ’ll  have  less  pleasure  in  pulling  the 
house  over  my  head,  when  your  own  skull ’s  to  be  broken  too.” 

“  Ay,  ay,”  said  Dunstan,  rising ;  “  all  right.  I  thought  you ’d 
come  round.  I ’m  the  fellow  to  bring  old  Bryce  up  to  the 
scratch.  I  ’ll  get  you  a  hundred  and  twenty  for  him,  if  I  get 
you  a  penny.” 

But  it  ’ll  perhaps  rain  cats  and  dogs  to-morrow,  as  it  did 
yesterday,  and  then  you  can’t  go,”  said  Godfrey,  hardly  know¬ 
ing  whether  he  wished  for  that  obstacle  or  not. 

“Not  it,”  said  Dunstan.  “I’m  always  lucky  in  my  weather. 
It  might  rain  if  you  wanted  to  go  yourself.  You  never  hold 
trumps,  you  know — I  always  do.  You’ve  got  the  beauty, 
you  see,  and  I ’ve  got  the  luck,  so  you  must  keep  me  by  you 
for  your  crooked  sixpence ;  you  ’ll  ne-vev  get  along  without 
me.” 

“Confound  you,  hold  your  tongue  !”  said  Godfrey,  impetu¬ 
ously.  “  And  take  care  to  keep  sober  to-morrow,  else  you  ’ll 
get  pitched  on  your  head  coming  home,  and  Wildfire  might  be 
the  worse  for  it.” 

“  Make  your  tender  heart  easy,”  said  Dunstan,  opening  the 
door.  “  You  never  knew  me  see  double  when  I ’d  got  a  bar¬ 
gain  to  make  ;  it  ’ud  spoil  the  fun.  Besides,  whenever  I  fall, 
I ’m  warranted  to  fall  on  my  legs.” 


SILAS  MARNER. 


243 


With  that,  Dunstan  slammed  the  door  behind  him,  and  left 
Godfrey  to  that  bitter  rumination  on  his  personal  circumstances 
which  was  now  unbroken  from  day  to  day  save  by  the  excite¬ 
ment  of  sporting,  drinking,  card-playing,  or  the  rarer  and  less 
oblivious  pleasure  of  seeing  Miss  Nancy  Lammeter.  The  subtle 
and  varied  pains  springing  from  the  higher  sensibility  that 
accompanies  higher  culture,  are  perhaps  less  pitiable  than  that 
dreary  absence  of  impersonal  enjoyment  and  consolation  which 
leaves  ruder  minds  to  the  perpetual  urgent  companionship  of 
their  own  griefs  and  discontents.  The  lives  of  those  rural 
forefathers,  whom  we  are  apt  to  think  very  prosaic  figures  — 
men  whose  only  work  was  to  ride  round  their  land,  getting 
heavier  and  heavier  in  their  saddles,  and  who  passed  the  rest 
of  their  days  in  the  half-listless  gratification  of  senses  dulled 
by  monotony  —  had  a  certain  pathos  in  them  nevertheless. 
Calamities  came  to  them  too,  and  their  early  errors  carried 
hard  consequences :  perhaps  the  love  of  some  sweet  maiden, 
the  image  of  purity,  order,  and  calm,  had  opened  their  eyes  to 
the  vision  of  a  life  in  which  the  days  would  not  seem  too  long, 
even  without  rioting ;  but  the  maiden  was  lost,  and  the  vision 
passed  away,  and  then  what  was  left  to  them,  especially  when 
they  had  become  too  heavy  for  the  hunt,  or  for  carrying  a  gun 
over  the  furrows,  but  to  drink  and  get  merry,  or  to  drink  and 
get  angry,  so  that  they  might  be  independent  of  variety,  and 
say  over  again  with  eager  emphasis  the  things  they  had  said 
already  any  time  that  twelvemonth  ?  Assuredly,  among  these 
flushed  and  dull-eyed  men  there  were  some  whom  —  thanks  to 
their  native  human-kindness — even  riot  could  never  drive 
into  brutality ;  men  who,  when  their  cheeks  were  fresh,  had 
felt  the  keen  point  of  sorrow  or  remorse,  had  been  pierced  by 
the  reeds  they  leaned  on,  or  had  lightly  put  their  limbs  in 
fetters  from  which  no  struggle  could  loose  them;  and  under 
these  sad  circumstances,  common  to  us  all,  their  thoughts  could 
find  no  resting-place  outside  the  ever-trodden  round  of  their 
own  petty  history. 

That,  at  least,  was  the  condition  of  Godfrey  Cass  in  this 
six-and-twentieth  year  of  his  life.  A  movement  of  compunc¬ 
tion,  helped  by  those  small  indefinable  influences  which  every 


244 


SmAS  MARNER. 


personal  relation  exerts  on  a  pliant  nature,  had  urged  him  into 
a  secret  marriage,  which  was  a  blight  on  his  life.  It  was  an 
ugly  story  of  low  passion,  delusion,  and  waking  from  delusion, 
which  needs  not  to  be  dragged  from  the  privacy  of  Godfrey’s 
bitter  memory.  He  had  long  known  that  the  delusion  was 
partly  due  to  a  trap  laid  for  him  by  Dunstan,  who  saw  in  his 
brother’s  degrading  marriage  the  means  of  gratifying  at  once 
his  jealous  hate  and  his  cupidity.  And  if  Godfrey  could  have 
felt  himself  simply  a  victim,  the  iron  bit  that  destiny  had  put 
into  his  mouth  would  have  chafed  him  less  intolerably.  If 
the  curses  he  muttered  half  aloud  when  he  was  alone  had  had 
no  other  object  than  Dunstan’s  diabolical  cunning,  he  might 
have  shrunk  less  from  the  consequences  of  avowal.  But  he 
had  something  else  to  curse — his  own  vicious  folly,  which  now 
seemed  as  mad  and  unaccountable  to  him  as  almost  all  our 
follies  and  vices  do  when  their  promptings  have  long  passed 
away.  For  four  years  he  had  thought  of  Nancy  Lammeter, 
and  wooed  her  with  tacit  patient  worship,  as  the  woman  who 
made  him  think  of  the  future  with  joy :  she  would  be  his  wife, 
and  would  make  home  lovely  to  him,  as  his  father’s  home  had 
never  been  ;  and  it  would  be  easy,  when  she  was  always  near, 
to  shake  off  those  foolish  habits  that  were  no  pleasures,  but 
only  a  feverish  way  of  annulling  vacancy.  Godfrey’s  was 
an  essentially  domestic  nature,  bred  up  in  a  home  where  the 
hearth  had  no  smiles,  and  where  the  daily  habits  were  not 
chastised  by  the  presence  of  household  order.  His  easy  dis¬ 
position  made  him  fall  in  unresistingly  with  the  family  courses, 
but  the  need  of  some  tender  permanent  affection,  the  longing 
for  some  influence  that  would  make  the  good  he  preferred 
easy  to  pursue,  caused  the  neatness,  purity,  and  liberal  order¬ 
liness  of  the  Lammeter  household,  sunned  by  the  smile  of 
Nancy,  to  seem  like  those  fresh  bright  hours  of  the  morning 
when  temptations  go  to  sleep  and  leave  the  ear  open  to  the 
voice  of  the  good  angel,  inviting  to  industry,  sobriety,  and 
peace.  And  yet  the  hope  of  this  paradise  had  not  been 
enough  to  save  him  from  a  course  which  shut  him  out  of  it 
forever.  Instead  of  keeping  fast  hold  of  the  strong  silken 
rope  by  which  Nancy  would  have  drawn  him  safe  to  the  green 


SILAS  MARNER. 


245 


banks  where  it  was  easy  to  step  firmly,  he  had  let  himself  be 
dragged  back  into  mud  and  slime,  in  which  it  was  useless  to 
struggle.  He  had  made  ties  for  himself  which  robbed  him  of 
all  wholesome  motive  and  were  a  constant  exasperation. 

Still,  there  was  one  position  worse  than  the  present :  it  was 
the  position  he  would  be  in  when  the  ugly  secret  was  dis¬ 
closed  ;  and  the  desire  that  continually  triumphed  over  every 
other  was  that  of  warding  off  the  evil  day,  when  he  would 
have  to  bear  the  consequences  of  his  father’s  violent  resent¬ 
ment  for  the  wound  inflicted  on  his  family  pride  —  would 
have,  perhaps,  to  turn  his  back  on  that  hereditary  ease  and 
dignity  which,  after  all,  was  a  sort  of  reason  for  living,  and 
would  carry  with  him  the  certainty  that  he  was  banished  for¬ 
ever  from  the  sight  and  esteem  of  ISTancy  Lammeter.  The 
longer  the  interval,  the  more  chance  there  was  of  deliverance 
from  some,  at  least,  of  the  hateful  consequences  to  which  he 
had  sold  himself  ;  the  more  opportunities  remained  for  him  to 
snatch  the  strange  gratification  of  seeing  ISTancy,  and  gathering 
some  faint  indications  of  her  lingering  regard.  Towards  this 
gratification  he  was  impelled,  fitfully,  every  now  and  then, 
after  having  passed  weeks  in  which  he  had  avoided  her  as  the 
far-off  bright-winged  prize  that  only  made  him  spring  forward 
and  find  his  chain  all  the  more  galling.  One  of  those  fits  of 
yearning  was  on  him  now,  and  it  would  have  been  strong 
enough  to  have  persuaded  him  to  trust  Wildfire  to  Dunstan 
rather  than  disappoint  the  yearning,  even  if  he  had  not  had 
another  reason  for  his  disinclination  towards  the  morrow’s 
hunt.  That  other  reason  was  the  fact  that  the  morning’s 
meet  was  near  Batherley,  the  market-town  where  the  unhappy 
woman  lived,  whose  image  became  more  odious  to  him  every 
day  ;  and  to  his  thought  the  whole  vicinage  was  haunted  by 
her.  The  yoke  a  man  creates  for  himself  by  wrong-doing  will 
breed  hate  in  the  kindliest  nature;  and  the  good-humored, 
affectionate-hearted  Godfrey  Cass  was  fast  becoming  a  bitter 
man,  visited  by  cruel  wishes,  that  seemed  to  enter,  and  depart, 
and  enter  again,  like  demons  who  had  found  in  him  a  ready- 
garnished  home. 

What  was  he  to  do  this  evening  to  pass  the  time  ?  He 


246 


SILAS  MARKER. 


migiit  as  well  go  to  the  Rainbow,  and  hear  the  talk  about  the 
cock-fighting ;  everybody  was  there,  and  what  else  was  there 
to  be  done?  Though,  for  his  own  part,  he  did  not  care  a 
button  for  cock-fighting.  Snuff,  the  brown  spaniel,  who  had 
placed  herself  in  front  of  him,  and  had  been  watching  him  for 
some  time,  now  jumped  up  in  impatience  for  the  expected 
caress.  But  Godfrey  thrust  hei  away  without  looking  at  her, 
and  left  the  room,  followed  humbly  by  the  unresenting  Snuff 
—  perhaps  because  she  saw  no  other  career  open  to  her. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Dunstan  Cass,  setting  off  in  the  raw  morning,  at  the  judi¬ 
ciously  quiet  pace  of  a  man  who  is  obliged  to  ride  to  cover  on 
his  hunter,  had  to  take  his  way  along  the  lane  which,  at  its 
farther  extremity,  passed  by  the  piece  of  unenclosed  ground 
called  the  Stone-pit,  where  stood  the  cottage,  once  a  stone¬ 
cutter’s  shed,  now  for  fifteen  years  inhabited  by  Silas  Marner. 
The  spot  looked  very  dreary  at  this  season,  with  the  moist 
trodden  clay  about  it,  and  the  red,  muddy  water  high  up  in 
the  deserted  quarry.  That  was  Dunstan’s  first  thought  as  he 
approached  it ;  the  second  was,  that  the  old  fool  of  a  weaver, 
whose  loom  he  heard  rattling  already,  had  a  great  deal  of 
money  hidden  somewhere.  How  was  it  that  he,  Dunstan 
Cass,  who  had  often  heard  talk  of  Marner’s  miserliness,  had 
never  thought  of  suggesting  to  Godfrey  that  he  should  frighten 
or  persuade  the  old  fellow  into  lending  the  money  on  the 
excellent  security  of  the  young  Squire’s  prospects  ?  The 
resource  occurred  to  him  now  as  so  easy  and  agreeable,  es¬ 
pecially  as  Marner’s  hoard  was  likely  to  be  large  enough  to  leave 
Godfrey  a  handsome  surplus  beyond  his  immediate  needs,  and 
enable  him  to  accommodate  his  faithful  brother,  that  he  had 
almost  turned  the  horse’s  head  towards  home  again.  Godfrey 
would  be  ready  enough  to  accept  the  suggestion :  he  would 


SILAS  MARKER. 


'247 


snatcE  eagerly  at  a  plan  that  might  save  him  from  parting 
with  Wildfire.  But  when  Dunstan’s  meditation  reached  tins 
point,  the  inclination  to  go  on  grew  strong  and  prevailed.  He 
did  n’t  want  to  give  Godfrey  that  pleasure  :  he  preferred  that 
Master  Godfrey  should  be  vexed.  Moreover,  Dunstan  en¬ 
joyed  the  self-important  consciousness  of  having  a  horse  to 
sell,  and  the  opportunity  of  driving  a  bargain,  swaggering, 
and  possibly  taking  somebody  in.  He  might  have  all  the 
satisfaction  attendant  on  selling  his  brother’s  horse,  and  not 
the  less  have  the  further  satisfaction  of  setting  Godfrey  to 
borrow  Marner’s  money.  So  he  rode  on  to  cover. 

Bryce  and  Keating  were  there,  as  Dunstan  was  quite  sure 
they  would  be  —  he  was  such  a  lucky  fellow. 

“  Heyday  !  ”  said  Bryce,  who  had  long  had  his  eye  on  Wild¬ 
fire,  “you’re  on  your  brother’s  horse  to-day  :  how ’s  that  ?  ” 

“  Oh,  I ’ve  swopped  with  him,”  said  Dunstan,  whose  delight 
in  lying,  grandly  independent  of  utility,  was  not  to  be  dimin¬ 
ished  by  the  likelihood  that  his  hearer  would  not  believe  him 
—  “  Wildfire’s  mine  now.” 

“  What !  has  he  swopped  with  you  for  that  big-boned  hack 
of  yours  ?  ”  said  Bryce,  quite  aware  that  he  should  get  another 
lie  in  answer. 

“  Oh,  there  was  a  little  account  between  us,”  said  Dunsey, 
carelessly,  “  and  Wildfire  made  it  even.  I  accommodated  him 
by  taking  the  horse,  though  it  was  against  my  will,  for  I ’d 
got  an  itch  for  a  mare  o’  Jortin’s  — as  rare  a  bit  o’  blood  as 
ever  you  threw  your  leg  across.  But  I  shall  keep  Wildfire, 
now  I ’ve  got  him,  though  I ’d  a  bid  of  a  hundred  and  fifty  for 
him  the  other  day,  from  a  man  over  at  Flitton  —  he ’s  buying 
for  Lord  Cromleck  —  a  fellow  with  a  cast  in  his  eye,  and  a 
green  waistcoat.  But  I  mean  to  stick  to  Wildfire :  I  shan’t 
get  a  better  at  a  fence  in  a  hurry.  The  mare ’s  got  more  blood, 
but  she ’s  a  bit  too  weak  in  the  hind-quarters.” 

Bryce  of  course  divined  that  Dunstan  wanted  to  sell  the 
horse,  and  Dunstan  knew  that  he  divined  it  (horse-dealing  is 
only  one  of  many  human  transactions  carried  on  in  this  in¬ 
genious  manner)  ;  and  they  both  considered  that  the  bargain 
was  in  its  first  stage,  when  Bryce  replied,  ironically  — 


248 


SILAS  MARNER. 


wonder  at  that  now;  I  wonder  you  mean  to  keep  him; 
for  I  never  heard  of  a  man  who  did  n’t  want  to  sell  his  horse 
getting  a  bid  of  half  as  much  again  as  the  horse  was  worth. 
You’ll  be  lucky  if  you  get  a  hundred.” 

Keating  rode  up  now,  and  the  transaction  became  more  com¬ 
plicated.  It  ended  in  the  purchase  of  the  horse  by  Bryce  for 
a  hundred  and  twenty,  to  be  paid  on  the  delivery  of  Wildfire, 
safe  and  sound,  at  the  Batherley  stables.  It  did  occur  to 
Dunsey  that  it  might  be  wise  for  him  to  give  up  the  day’s 
hunting,  proceed  at  once  to  Batherley,  and,  having  waited  for 
Bryce’s  return,  hire  a  horse  to  carry  him  home  with  the  money 
in  his  pocket.  But  the  inclination  for  a  run,  encouraged  by 
confidence  in  his  luck,  and  by  a  draught  of  brandy  from  his 
pocket-pistol  at  the  conclusion  of  the  bargain,  was  not  easy  to 
overcome,  especially  with  a  horse  under  him  that  would  take 
the  fences  to  the  admiration  of  the  field.  Dunstan,  however, 
took  one  fence  too  many,  and  got  his  horse  pierced  with  a 
hedge-stake.  His  own  ill-favored  perscm,  which  was  quite 
unmarketable,  escaped  without  injury  ;  but  poor  Wildfire,  un¬ 
conscious  of  his  price,  turned  on  his  flank  and  painfully  panted 
his  last.  It  happened  that  Dunstan,  a  short  time  before,  having 
had  to  get  down  to  arrange  his  stirrup,  had  muttered  a  good 
many  curses  at  this  interruption,  which  had  thrown  him  in  the 
rear  of  the  hunt  near  the  moment  of  glory,  and  under  this 
exasperation  had  taken  the  fences  more  blindly.  He  would 
soon  have  been  up  with  the  hounds  again,  when  the  fatal  acci¬ 
dent  happened ;  and  hence  he  was  between  eager  riders  in 
advance,  not  troubling  themselves  about  what  happened  behind 
them,  and  far-off  stragglers,  who  were  as  likely  as  not  to  pass 
quite  aloof  from  the  line  of  road  in  which  Wildfire  had  fallen. 
Dunstan,  whose  nature  it  was  to  care  more  for  immediate 
annoyances  than  for  remote  consequences,  no  sooner  recovered 
his  legs,  and  saw  that  it  was  all  over  with  Wildfire,  than  he 
felt  a  satisfaction  at  the  absence  of  witnesses  to  a  position 
which  no  swaggering  could  make  enviable.  Beinforcing  him¬ 
self,  after  his  shake,  with  a  little  brandy  and  much  swearing, 
he  walked  as  fast  as  he  could  to  a  coppice  on  his  right  hand, 
through  which  it  occurred  to  him  that  he  could  make  his  way 


SILAS  MARNER. 


249 


to  Batherley  without  danger  of  encountering  any  member  of 
the  hunt.  His  first  intention  was  to  hire  a  horse  there  and 
ride  home  forthwith,  for  to  walk  many  miles  without  a  gun  in 
his  hand  and  along  an  ordinary  road,  was  as  much  out  of  the 
question  to  him  as  to  other  spirited  young  men  of  his  kind. 
He  did  not  much  mind  about  taking  the  bad  news  to  Godfrey, 
for  he  had  to  offer  him  at  the  same  time  the  resource  of  Mar- 
ner’s  money ;  and  if  Godfrey  kicked,  as  he  always  did,  at  the 
notion  of  making  a  fresh  debt  from  which  he  himself  got  the 
smallest  share  of  advantage,  why,  he  wouldn’t  kick  long: 
Dunstan  felt  sure  he  could  worry  Godfrey  into  anything. 
The  idea  of  Marner’s  money  kept  growing  in  vividness,  now 
the  want  of  it  had  become  immediate  ;  the  prospect  of  having 
to  make  his  appearance  with  the  muddy  boots  of  a  pedestrian 
at  Batherley,  and  to  encounter  the  grinning  queries  of  stable¬ 
men,  stood  unpleasantly  in  the  way  of  his  impatience  to  be 
back  at  Eaveloe  and  Carry  out  his  felicitous  plan;  and  a 
casual  visitation  of  his  waistcoat-pocket,  as  he  was  ruminating, 
awakened  his  memory  to  the  fact  that  the  two  or  three  small 
coins  his  fore-finger  encountered  there,  were  of  too  pale  a  color 
to  cover  that  small  debt,  without  payment  of  which  the  stable- 
keeper  had  declared  he  would  never  do  any  more  business  with 
Dunsey  Cass.  After  all,  according  to  the  direction  in  which 
the  run  had  brought  him,  he  was  not  so  very  much  farther 
from  home  than  he  was  from  Batherley ;  but  Dunsey,  not 
being  remarkable  for  clearness  of  head,  was  only  led  to  this 
conclusion  by  the  gradual  perception  that  there  were  other 
reasons  for  choosing  the  unprecedented  course  of  walking 
home.  It  was  now  nearly  four  o’clock,  and  a  mist  was  gather¬ 
ing  :  the  sooner  he  got  into  the  road  the  better.  He  remem¬ 
bered  having  crossed  the  road  and  seen  the  finger-post  only  a 
little  while  before  Wildfire  broke  down  ;  so,  buttoning  his  coat, 
twisting  the  lash  of  his  hunting-whip  compactly  round  the 
handle,  and  rapping  the  tops  of  his  boots  with  a  self-possessed 
air,  as  if  to  assure  himself  that  he  was  not  at  all  taken  by  sur¬ 
prise,  he  set  off  with  the  sense  that  he  was  undertaking  a 
remarkable  feat  of  bodily  exertion,  which  somehow  and  at 
some  time  he  should  l)e  able  to  dress  up  and  magnify  to  the 


250 


SILAS  MARNER. 


admiration  of  a  select  circle  at  the  Rainbow.  When  a  young 
gentleman  like  Dunsey  is  reduced  to  so  exceptional  a  mode  of 
locomotion  as  walking,  a  whip  in  his  hand  is  a  desirable  cor¬ 
rective  to  a  too  bewildering  dreamy  sense  of  unwoutedness  in 
his  position ;  and  Dunstan,  as  he  went  along  through  the  gath¬ 
ering  mist,  was  always  rapping  his  whip  somewhere.  It  was 
Godfrey’s  whip,  which  he  had  chosen  to  take  without  leave 
because  it  had  a  gold  handle ;  of  course  no  one  could  see,  when 
Dunstan  held  it,  that  the  name  Godfrey  Cass  was  cut  in  deep 
letters  on  that  gold  handle  —  they  could  only  see  that  it  was  a 
very  handsome  whip.  Dunsey  was  not  without  fear  that  he 
might  meet  some  acquaintance  in  whose  eyes  he  would  cut  a 
pitiable  figure,  for  mist  is  no  screen  when  people  get  close  to 
each  other;  but  when  he  at  last  found  himself  in  the  well- 
known  Raveloe  lanes  without  having  met  a  soul,  he  silently 
remarked  that  that  was  part  of  his  usual  good-luck.  But  now 
the  mist,  helped  by  the  evening  darkness,  was  more  of  a  screen 
than  he  desired,  for  it  hid  the  ruts  into  which  his  feet  were 
liable  to  slip  —  hid  everything,  so  that  he  had  to  guide  his 
steps  by  dragging  his  whip  along  the  low  bushes  in  advance  of 
the  hedgerow.  He  must  soon,  he  thought,  be  getting  near  the 
opening  at  the  Stone-pits :  he  should  find  it  out  by  the  break 
in  the  hedgerow.  He  found  it  out,  however,  by  another  cir¬ 
cumstance  which  he  had  not  expected — namely,  by  certain 
gleams  of  light,  which  he  presently  guessed  to  proceed  from 
Silas  Marner’s  cottage.  That  cottage  and  the  money  hidden 
within  it  had  been  in  his  mind  continually  during  his  walk, 
aud  he  had  been  imagining  ways  of  cajoling  and  tempting  the 
weaver  to  part  with  the  immediate  possession  of  his  money  for 
the  sake  of  receiving  interest.  Dunstan  felt  as  if  there  must 
be  a  little  frightening  added  to  the  cajolery,  for  his  own  arith¬ 
metical  convictions  were  not  clear  enough  to  afford  him  any 
forcible  demonstration  as  to  the  advantages  of  interest ;  and 
as  for  security,  he  regarded  it  vaguely  as  a  means  of  cheating 
a  man  by  making  him  believe  that  he  would  be  paid.  Alto¬ 
gether,  the  operation  on  the  miser’s  mind  was  a  task  that 
Godfrey  would  be  sure  to  hand  over  to  his  more  daring  and 
cunning  brother ;  Dunstan  had  made  up  his  mind  to  that ;  and 


SILAS  MARNER. 


251 


by  tbe  time  he  saw  the  light  gleaming  through  the  chinks  of 
Marner’s  shutters,  the  idea  of  a  dialogue  with  the  weaver  had 
become  so  familiar  to  him,  that  it  occurred  to  him  as  quite  a 
natural  thing  to  make  the  acquaintance  forthwith.  There 
might  be  several  conveniences  attending  this  course :  the 
weaver  had  possibly  got  a  lantern,  and  Dunstan  was  tired  of 
feeling  his  way.  He  was  still  nearly  three-quarters  of  a  mile 
from  home,  and  the  lane  was  becoming  unpleasantly  slippery, 
for  the  mist  was  passing  into  rain.  He  turned  up  the  bank, 
not  without  some  fear  lest  he  might  miss  the  right  way,  since 
he  was  not  certain  whether  the  light  were  in  front  or  on  the 
side  of  the  cottage.  But  he  felt  the  ground  before  him  cau¬ 
tiously  with  his  whip-handle,  and  at  last  arrived  safely  at  the 
door.  He  knocked  loudly,  rather  enjoying  the  idea  that  the 
old  fellow  would  be  frightened  at  the  sudden  noise.  He  heard 
no  movement  in  reply :  all  was  silence  in  the  cottage.  Was 
the  weaver  gone  to  bed,  then  ?  If  so,  why  had  he  left  a  light  ? 
That  was  a  strange  forgetfulness  in  a  miser.  Dunstan  knocked 
still  more  loudly,  and,  without  pausing  for  a  reply,  pushed  his 
fingers  through  the  latch-hole,  intending  to  shake  the  door  and 
pull  the  latch-string  up  and  down,  not  doubting  that  the  door 
was  fastened.  But,  to  his  surprise,  at  this  double  motion  the 
door  opened,  and  he  found  himself  in  front  of  a  bright  fire 
which  lit  up  every  corner  of  the  cottage  —  the  bed,  the  loom, 
the  three  chairs,  and  the  table  —  and  showed  him  that  Marner 
was  not  there. 

Nothing  at  that  moment  could  be  much  more  inviting  to 
Dunsey  than  the  bright  fire  on  the  brick  hearth :  he  walked 
in  and  seated  himself  by  it  at  once.  There  was  something  in 
front  of  the  fire,  too,  that  would  have  been  inviting  to  a 
hungry  man,  if  it  had  been  in  a  different  stage  of  cooking.  It 
was  a  small  bit  of  pork  suspended  from  the  kettle-hanger  by 
a  string  passed  through  a  large  door-key,  in  a  way  known  to 
primitive  house-keepers  unpossessed  of  jacks.  But  the  pork 
had  been  hung  at  the  farthest  extremity  of  the  hanger,  appar¬ 
ently  to  prevent  the  roasting  from  proceeding  too  rapidly  dur¬ 
ing  the  owner’s  absence.  The  old  staring  simpleton  had  hot 
meat  for  his  supner,  then  ?  thought  Dunstan.  People  had 


252 


SILAS  MARKER. 


always  said  he  lived  on  mouldy  bread,  on  purpose  to  check 
his  appetite.  But  where  could  he  be  at  this  time,  and  ou  such 
an  evening,  leaving  his  supper  in  this  stage  of  preparation, 
and  his  door  unfastened  ?  Dunstan’s  own  recent  difficulty  in 
making  his  way  suggested  to  him  that  the  weaver  had  perhaps 
gone  outside  his  cottage  to  fetch  in  fuel,  or  for  some  such 
brief  purpose,  and  had  slipped  into  the  Stone-pit.  That  was 
an  interesting  idea  to  Dunstan,  carrying  consequences  of  en¬ 
tire  novelty.  If  the  weaver  was  dead,  who  had  a  right  to  his 
money  ?  Who  would  know  where  his  money  was  hidden  ? 
WAo  would  know  that  anybody  had  come  to  take  it  away  ?  He 
went  no  farther  into  the  subtleties  of  evidence :  the  pressing 
question,  “  Where  is  the  money  ?  ”  now  took  such  entire  pos¬ 
session  of  him  as  to  make  him  quite  forget  that  the  weaver’s 
death  was  not  a  certainty.  A  dull  mind,  once  arriving  at  an 
inference  that  flatters  a  desire,  is  rarely  able  to  retain  the 
impression  that  the  notion  from  which  the  inference  started 
was  purely  problematic.  And  Dunstan’s  mind  was  as  dull  as 
the  mind  of  a  'possible  felon  usually  is.  There  were  only 
three  hiding-places  where  he  had  ever  heard  of  cottagers’ 
hoards  being  found :  the  thatch,  the  bed,  and  a  hole  in  the 
floor.  Marner’s  cottage  had  no  thatch;  and  Dunstan’s  first 
act,  after  a  train  of  thought  made  rapid  by  the  stimulus  of 
cupidity,  was  to  go  up  to  the  bed ;  but  while  he  did  so,  his 
eyes  travelled  eagerly  over  the  floor,  where  the  bricks,  distinct 
in  the  fire-light,  were  discernible  under  the  sprinkling  of  sand. 
But  not  everywhere ;  for  there  was  one  spot,  and  one  only, 
which  was  quite  covered  with  sand,  and  sand  showing  the 
marks  of  fingers,  which  had  apparently  been  careful  to  spread 
it  over  a  given  space.  It  was  near  the  treadles  of  the  loom. 
In  an  instant  Dunstan  darted  to  that  spot,  swept  away  the 
sand  with  his  whip,  and,  inserting  the  thin  end  of  the  hook 
between  the  bricks,  found  that  they  were  loose.  In  haste  he 
lifted  up  two  bricks,  and  saw  what  he  had  no  doubt  was  the 
object  of  his  search  ;  for  what  could  there  be  but  money  in 
those  two  leathern  bags  ?  And,  from  their  weight,  they  must 
be  filled  with  guineas.  Dunstan  felt  round  the  hole,  to  be 
certain  that  it  held  no  more  :  then  hastily  replaced  the  bricks, 


SILAS  MARNER. 


253 


and  spread  the  sand  over  them.  Hardly  more  than  five 
minutes  had  passed  since  he  entered  the  cottage,  but  it  seemed 
to  Dunstan  like  a  long  while  ;  and  though  he  was  without 
any  distinct  recognition  of  the  possibility  that  Marner  might 
be  alive,  and  might  re-enter  the  cottage  at  any  moment,  he 
felt  an  undefinable  dread  laying  hold  on  him,  as  he  rose  to  his 
feet  with  the  bags  in  his  hand.  He  would  hasten  out  into 
the  darkness,  and  then  consider  what  he  should  do  with  the 
bags.  He  closed  the  door  behind  him  immediately,  that  he 
might  shut  in  the  stream  of  light :  a  few  steps  would  be 
enough  to  carry  him  beyond  betrayal  by  the  gleams  from  the 
shutter-chinks  and  the  latch-hole.  The  rain  and  darkness  had 
got  thicker,  and  he  was  glad  of  it ;  though  it  was  awkward 
walking  with  both  hands  filled,  so  that  it  was  as  much  as  he 
could  do  to  grasp  his  whip  along  with  one  of  the  bags.  But 
when  he  had  gone  a  yard  or  two,  he  might  take  his  time.  So 
he  stepped  forward  into  the  darkness. 


CHAPTER  V. 

When  Dunstan  Cass  turned  his  back  on  the  cottage,  Silas 
Marner  was  not  more  than  a  hundred  yards  away  from  it, 
plodding  along  from  the  village  with  a  sack  thrown  round  his 
shoulders  as  an  over-coat,  and  with  a  horn  lantern  in  his  hand. 
His  legs  were  weary,  but  his  mind  was  at  ease,  free  from  the 
presentiment  of  change.  The  sense  of  security  more  fre¬ 
quently  springs  from  habit  than  from  conviction,  and  for  this 
reason  it  often  subsists  after  such  a  change  in  the  conditions 
as  might  have  been  expected  to  suggest  alarm.  The  lapse  of 
time  during  which  a  given  event  has  not  happened,  is,  in  this 
logic  of  habit,  constantly  alleged  as  a  reason  why  the  event 
should  never  happen,  even  when  the  lapse  of  time  is  precisely 
the  added  condition  which  makes  the  event  imminent.  A 
man  will  tell  you  that  he  has  worked  in  a  mine  for  forty  years 


254 


SILAS  MARNER. 


unhurt  by  an  accident  as  a  reason  why  he  should  apprehend 
no  danger,  though  the  roof  is  beginning  to  sink;  and  it  is 
often  observable,  that  the  older  a  man  gets,  the  more  difB.cult 
it  is  to  him  to  retain  a  believing  conception  of  his  own  death. 
This  influence  of  habit  was  necessarily  strong  in  a  man  whose 
life  was  so  monotonous  as  Marner’s  —  who  saw  no  new  people 
and  heard  of  no  new  events  to  keep  alive  in  him  the  idea  of 
the  unexpected  and  the  changeful ;  and  it  explains  simply 
enough,  why  his  mind  could  be  at  ease,  though  he  had  left 
his  house  and  his  treasure  more  defenceless  than  usual.  Silas 
was  thinking  with  double  complacency  of  his  supper ;  first, 
because  it  would  be  hot  and  savory  ;  and  secondly,  because  it 
weald  cost  him  nothing.  For  the  little  bit  of  pork  was  a 
present  from  that  excellent  housewife.  Miss  Priscilla  Lam- 
meter,  to  whom  he  had  this  day  carried  home  a  handsome 
piece  of  linen ;  and  it  was  only  on  occasion  of  a  present  like 
this,  that  Silas  indulged  himself  with  roast  meat.  Supper 
was  his  favorite  meal,  because  it  came  at  his  time  of  revelry, 
when  his  heart  warmed  over  his  gold ;  whenever  he  had  roast 
meat,  he  always  chose  to  have  it  for  supper.  But  this  even¬ 
ing,  he  had  no  sooner  ingeniously  knotted  his  string  fast 
round  his  bit  of  pork,  twisted  the  string  according  to  rule 
over  his  door-key,  passed  it  through  the  handle,  and  made  it 
fast  on  the  hanger,  than  he  remembered  that  a  piece  of  very 
fine  twine  was  indispensable  to  his  “  setting  up  ”  a  new  piece 
of  work  in  his  loom  early  in  the  morning.  It  had  slipped  his 
memory,  because,  in  coming  from  Mr.  Lammeter’s,  he  had  not 
had  to  pass  through  the  village;  but  to  lose  time  by  going  on 
errands  in  the  morning  was  out  of  the  question.  It  w^as  a 
nasty  fog  to  turn  out  into,  but  there  were  things  Silas  loved 
better  than  his  own  comfort ;  so,  drawing  his  pork  to  the 
extremity  of  the  hanger,  and  arming  himself  with  his  lantern 
and  his  old  sack,  he  set  out  on  what,  in  ordinary  weather, 
would  have  been  a  twenty  minutes’  errando  He  could  not 
have  locked  his  door  without  undoing  his  well-knotted  string 
and  retarding  his  supper ;  it  was  not  worth  his  while  to  make 
that  sacrifice.  What  thief  would  find  his  w^ay  to  the  Stone- 
pits  on  such  a  night  as  this  ?  and  why  should  he  come  on  thb 


SILAS  MARNER. 


255 


particular  night,  when  he  had  never  come  through  all  the 
fifteen  years  before  ?  These  questions  were  not  distinctly 
present  in  Silas’s  mind;  they  merely  serve  to  represent  the 
vaguely-felt  foundation  of  his  freedom  from  anxiety. 

He  reached  his  door  in  much  satisfaction  that  his  errand 
was  done ;  he  opened  it,  and  to  his  short-sighted  eyes  every¬ 
thing  remained  as  he  had  left  it,  except  that  the  fire  sent  out 
a  welcome  increase  of  heat.  He  trod  about  the  floor  while 
putting  by  his  lantern  and  throwing  aside  his  hat  and  sack, 
so  as  to  merge  the  marks  of  Dunstan’s  feet  on  the  sand  in 
the  marks  of  his  own  nailed  boots.  Then  he  moved  his  pork 
‘nearer  to  the  fire,  and  sat  down  to  the  agreeable  business  of 
tending  the  meat  and  warming  himself  at  the  same  time. 

Any  one  who  had  looked  at  him  as  the  red  light  shone 
upon  his  pale  face,  strange  straining  eyes,  and  meagre  form, 
would  perhaps  have  understood  the  mixture  of  contemptuous 
pity,  dread,  and  suspicion  with  which  he  was  regarded  by  his 
neighbors  in  Raveloe.  Yet  few  men  could  be  more  harmless 
than  poor  Marner.  In  his  truthful  simple  soul,  not  even  the 
growing  greed  and  worship  of  gold  could  beget  any  vice  di¬ 
rectly  injurious  to  others.  The  light  of  his  faith  quite  put 
out,  and  his  affections  made  desolate,  he  had  clung  with  all 
the  force  of  his  nature  to  his  work  and  his  money ;  and  like 
all  objects  to  which  a  man  devotes  himself,  they  had  fash¬ 
ioned  him  into  correspondence  with  themselves.  His  loom, 
as  he  wrought  in  it  without  ceasing,  had  in  its  turn  wrought 
on  him,  and  confirmed  more  and  more  the  monotonous  crav¬ 
ing  for  its  monotonous  response.  His  gold,  as  he  hung  over  it 
and  saw  it  grow,  gathered  his  power  of  loving  together  into  a 
hard  isolation  like  its  own. 

As  soon  as  he  was  warm  he  began  to  think  it  would  be  a 
long  while  to  wait  till  after  supper  before  he  drew  out  his 
guineas,  and  it  would  be  pleasant  to  see  them  on  the  table 
before  him  as  he  ate  his  unwonted  feast.  For  joy  is  the 
best  of  wine,  and  Silas’s  guineas  were  a  golden  wine  of  that 
sort. 

He  rose  and  placed  his  candle  unsuspectingly  on  the  floor 
near  his  loom,  swept  away  the  sand  without  noticing  any 


256 


SILAS  MARNER. 


change,  and  removed  the  bricks.  The  sight  of  the  empty  hole 
made  his  heart  leap  violently,  but  the  belief  that  his  gold  was 
gone  could  not  come  at  once  —  only  terror,  and  the  eager  effort 
to  put  an  end  to  the  terror.  He  passed  his  trembling  hand  all 
about  the  hole,  trying  to  think  it  possible  that  his  eyes  had 
deceived  him ;  then  he  held  the  candle  in  the  hole  and  exam¬ 
ined  it  curiously,  trembling  more  and  more.  At  last  he  shook 
so  violently  that  he  let  fall  the  candle,  and  lifted  his  hands  to 
his  head,  trying  to  steady  himself,  that  he  might  think.  Had 
he  put  his  gold  somewhere  else,  by  a  sudden  resolution  last 
night,  and  then  forgotten  it  ?  A  man  falling  into  dark  waters 
seeks  a  momentary  footing  even  on  sliding  stones  ;  and  Silas, 
by  acting  as  if  he  believed  in  false  hopes,  warded  off  the  mo¬ 
ment  of  despair.  He  searched  in  every  corner,  he  turned  his 
bed  over,  and  shook  it,  and  kneaded  it ;  he  looked  in  his  brick 
oven  where  he  laid  his  sticks.  When  there  was  no  other  place 
to  be  searched,  he  kneeled  down  again  and  felt  once  more  all 
round  the  hole.  There  was  no  untried  refuge  left  for  a 
moment’s  shelter  from  the  terrible  truth. 

Yes,  there  was  a  sort  of  refuge  which  always  comes  with  the 
prostration  of  thought  under  an  overpowering  passion  :  it  was 
that  expectation  of  impossibilities,  that  belief  in  contradictory 
images,  which  is  still  distinct  from  madness,  because  it  is 
capable  of  being  dissipated  by  the  external  fact.  Silas  got  up 
from  his  knees  trembling,  and  looked  round  at  the  table  : 
did  n’t  the  gold  lie  there  after  all  ?  The  table  was  bare. 
Then  he  turned  and  looked  behind  him  —  looked  all  round  his 
dwelling,  seeming  to  strain  his  brown  eyes  after  some  possible 
appearance  of  the  bags  where  he  had  already  sought  them  in 
vain.  He  could  see  every  object  in  his  cottage  —  and  his  gold 
was  not  there. 

Again  he  put  his  trembling  hands  to  his  head,  and  gave  a 
wild  ringing  scream,  the  cry  of  desolation.  For  a  few  mo¬ 
ments  after,  he  stood  motionless ;  but  the  cry  had  relieved 
him  from  the  first  maddening  pressure  of  the  truth.  He 
turned,  and  tottered  towards  his  loom,  and  got  into  the  seat 
where  he  worked,  instinctively  seeking  this  as  the  strongest 
assurance  of  reality. 


SILAS  MARNER. 


257 


And  now  tliat  all  the  false  hopes  had  vanished,  and  the 
first  shock  of  certainty  was  past,  the  idea  of  a  thief  began  to 
present  itself,  and  he  entertained  it  eagerly,  because  a  thief 
might  be  caught  and  made  to  restore  the  gold.  The  thought 
brought  some  new  strength  with  it,  and  he  started  from  his 
loom  to  the  door.  As  he  opened  it  the  rain  beat  in  upon  him, 
for  it  was  falling  more  and  more  heavily.  There  were  no  foot¬ 
steps  to  be  tracked  on  such  a  night  —  footsteps  ?  When  had 
the  thief  come  ?  During  Silas’s  absence  in  the  daytime  the 
door  had  been  locked,  and  there  had  been  no  marks  of  any 
/inroad  on  his  return  by  daylight.  And  in  the  evening,  too,  he 
said  to  himself,  everything  was  the  same  as  when  he  had  left 
it.  The  sand  and  bricks  looked  as  if  they  had  not  been  moved. 
Was  it  a  thief  who  had  taken  the  bags  ?  or  was  it  a  cruel 
power  that  no  hands  could  reach  which  had  delighted  in  mak¬ 
ing  him  a  second  time  desolate  ?  He  shrank  from  this  vaguer 
dread,  and  fixed  his  mind  with  struggling  effort  on  the  robber 
with  hands,  who  could  be  reached  by  hands.  His  thoughts 
glanced  at  all  the  neighbors  who  had  made  any  remarks,  or 
asked  any  questions  which  he  might  now  regard  as  a  ground 
of  suspicion.  There  was  Jem  Rodney,  a  known  poacher,  and 
otherwise  disreputable  :  he  had  often  met  Marner  in  his  jour¬ 
neys  across  the  fields,  and  had  said  something  jestingly  about 
the  weaver’s  money ;  nay,  he  had  once  irritated  Marner,  by 
lingering  at  the  fire  when  he  called  to  light  his  pipe,  instead 
of  going  about  his  business.  Jem  Rodney  was  the  man  — 
there  was  ease  in  the  thought.  Jem  could  be  found  and  made 
to  restore  the  money :  Marner  did  not  want  to  punish  him, 
but  only  to  get  back  his  gold  which  had  gone  from  him,  and 
left  his  soul  like  a  forlorn  traveller  on  an  unknown  desert. 
The  robber  must  be  laid  hold  of.  Marner’s  ideas  of  legal 
authority  were  confused,  but  he  felt  that  he  must  go  and  pro¬ 
claim.  his  loss ;  and  the  great  people  in  the  village  —  the 
clergyman,  the  constable,  and  Squire  Cass  —  would  make  J em 
Rodney,  or  somebody  else,  deliver  up  the  stolen  money.  He 
rushed  out  in  the  rain,  under  the  stimulus  of  this  hope,  for 
getting  to  cover  his  head,  not  caring  to  fasten  his  door ;  for  he 
felt  as  if  he  had  nothing  left  to  lose.  He  ran  swiftly,  tiU 
Ton.  Ti.  17 


258 


SILAS  MARNER. 


want  of  breath  compelled  him  to  slacken  his  pace  as  he  was 
entering  the  village  at  the  turning  close  to  the  Rainbow. 

The  Rainbow,  in  Marner’s  view,  was  a  place  of  luxurious 
resort  for  rich  and  stout  husbands,  whose  wives  had  super¬ 
fluous  stores  of  linen  ;  it  was  the  place  where  he  was  likely  to 
find  the  powers  and  dignities  of  Raveloe,  and  where  he  could 
most  speedily  make  his  loss  public.  He  lifted  the  latch,  and 
turned  into  the  bright  bar  or  kitchen  on  the  right  hand,  where 
the  less  lofty  customers  of  the  house  were  in  the  habit  of  as¬ 
sembling,  the  parlor  on  the  left  being  reserved  for  the  more 
select  society  in  which  Squire  Cass  frequently  enjoyed  the 
double  pleasure  of  conviviality  and  condescension.  But  the 
parlor  was  dark  to-night,  the  chief  personages  who  ornamented 
its  circle  being  all  at  Mrs.  Osgood’s  birthday  dance,  as  Godfrey 
Cass  was.  And  in  consequence  of  this,  the  party  on  the  high- 
screened  seats  in  the  kitchen  was  more  numerous  than  usual ; 
several  personages,  who  would  otherwise  have  been  admitted 
into  the  parlor  and  enlarged  the  opportunity  of  hectoring  and 
condescension  for  their  betters,  being  content  this  evening  to 
vary  their  enjoyment  by  taking  their  spirits-and- water  where 
they  could  themselves  hector  and  condescend  in  company  that 
called  for  beer.  , 


CHAPTER  VI. 

The  conversation,  which  was  at  a  high  pitch  of  animation 
when  Silas  approached  the  door  of  the  Rainbow,  had,  as  usual, 
been  slow  and  intermittent  when  the  company  first  assembled. 
The  pipes  began  to  be  puffed  in  a  silence  which  had  an  air  of 
severity ;  the  more  important  customers,  who  drank  spirits 
and  sat  nearest  the  fire,  staring  at  each  other  as  if  a  bet  were 
depending  on  the  first  man  who  winked;  while  the  beer- 
drinkers,  chiefly  men  in  fustian  jackets  and  smock-frocks, 
kept  their  eyelids  down  and  rubbed  their  hands  across  their 
mouths,  as  if  their  draughts  of  beer  were  a  funereal  dutj 


SILAS  MAKNLK. 


259 


attended  with  embarrassing  sadness.  At  last,  Mr.  Snell,  the 
landlord,  a  man  of  a  neutral  disposition,  accustomed  to  stand 
aloof  from  human  differences  as  those  of  beings  who  were  all 
alike  in  need  of  liquor,  broke  silence,  by  saying  in  a  doubtful 
tone  to  his  cousin  the  butcher  — 

“  Some  folks  ’ud  say  that  was  a  fine  beast  you  druv  in 
yesterday,  Bob  ?  ” 

The  butcher,  a  jolly,  smiling,  red-haired  man,  was  not  dis¬ 
posed  to  answer  rashly.  He  gave  a  few  puffs  before  he  spat 
and  replied,  “  And  they  would  n’t  be  fur  wrong,  John.” 

After  this  feeble  delusive  thaw,  the  silence  set  in  as  severely 
as  before. 

“Was  it  a  red  Durham?”  said  the  farrier,  taking  up  the 
thread  of  discourse  after  the  lapse  of  a  few  minutes. 

The  farrier  looked  at  the  landlord,  and  the  landlord  looked 
at  the  butcher,  as  the  person  who  must  take  the  responsibility 
of  answering. 

“Bed  it  was,”  said  the  butcher,  in  his  good-humored  husky 
treble  —  “  and  a  Durham  it  was.” 

“  Then  you  need  n’t  tell  me  who  you  bought  it  of,”  said  the 
farrier,  looking  round  with  some  triumph  ;  “  I  know  who  it  is 
has  got  the  red  Durhams  o’  this  country-side.  And  she ’d  a 
white  star  on  her  brow,  I  ’ll  bet  a  penny  ?  ”  The  farrier 
leaned  forward  with  his  hands  on  his  knees  as  he  put  this 
question,  and  his  eyes  twinkled  knowingly. 

“Well;  yes — she  might,”  said  the  butcher,  slowly,  con¬ 
sidering  that  he  was  giving  a  decided  affirmative.  “  I  don’t 
say  contrairy.” 

“  I  knew  that  very  well,”  said  the  farrier,  throwing  him¬ 
self  backward  again,  and  speaking  defiantly ;  “  if  /  don’t  know 
Mr.  Lammeter’s  cows,  I  should  like  to  know  who  does  —  that ’s 
all.  And  as  for  the  cow  you ’ve  bought,  bargain  or  no  bargain, 
I’ve  been  at  the  drenching  of  her  —  contradick  me  who  will.” 

The  farrier  looked  fierce,  and  the  mild  butcher’s  conversa¬ 
tional  spirit  was  roused  a  little. 

“I’m  not  for  contradicking  no  man,”  he  said;  “I’m  for 
peace  and  quietness.  Some  are  for  cutting  long  ribs  —  I’m 
for  cutting  ’em  short  myself ;  but  1  don’t  quarrel  with  ’em- 


260 


SILAS  MARNER. 


All  I  say  is,  it’s  a  lovely  carkiss — and  anybody  as  was 
reasonable,  it  ’ud  bring  tears  into  their  eyes  to  look  at  it.” 

“  Well,  it’s  the  cow  as  I  drenched,  whatever  it  is,”  pursued 
the  farrier,  angrily ;  and  it  was  Mr.  Lammeter’s  cow,  else 
you  told  a  lie  when  you  said  it  was  a  red  Durham.” 

I  tell  no  lies,”  said  the  butcher,  with  the  same  mild  huski¬ 
ness  as  before,  “  and  I  contradick  none  —  not  if  a  man  was  to 
swear  himself  black  :  he ’s  no  meat  o’  mine,  nor  none  o’  my 
bargains.  All  I  say  is,  it ’s  a  lovely  carkiss.  And  what  I  say 
I  ’ll  stick  to  ;  but  I  ’ll  quarrel  wi’  no  man.” 

^‘No,”  said  the  farrier,  with  bitter  sarcasm,  looking  at  the 
company  generally  ;  “  and  p’rhaps  you  ar  n’t  pig-headed  ;  and 
p’rhaps  you  didn’t  say  the  cow  was  a  red  Durham;  and 
p’rhaps  you  did  n’t  say  she ’d  got  a  star  on  her  brow  —  stick  to 
that,  now  you  ’re  at  it.” 

“  Come,  come,”  said  the  landlord ;  “  let  the  cow  alone.  The 
truth  lies  atween  you  :  you  ’re  both  right  and  both  wrong,  as 
I  allays  say.  And  as  for  the  cow’s  being  Mr.  Lammeter’s,  I 
say  nothing  to  that ;  but  this  I  say,  as  the  Rainbow ’s  the 
Rainbow.  And  for  the  matter  o’  that,  if  the  talk  is  to  be  o’ 
the  Lammeters,  you  know  the  most  upo’  that  head,  eh,  Mr. 
Macey  ?  You  remember  when  first  Mr.  Lammeter’s  father 
come  into  these  parts,  and  took  the  Warrens  ?  ” 

Mr.  Macey,  tailor  and  parish-clerk,  the  latter  of  which 
functions  rheumatism  had  of  late  obliged  him  to  share  with  a 
small-featured  young  man  who  sat  opposite  him,  held  his 
white  head  on  one  side,  and  twirled  his  thumbs  with  an  air 
of  complacency,  slightly  seasoned  with  criticism.  He  smiled 
pityingly,  in  answer  to  the  landlord’s  appeal,  and  said  — 

“  Ay,  ay  ;  I  know,  I  know ;  but  I  let  other  folks  talk.  I ’ve 
laid  by  now,  and  gev  up  to  the  young  uns.  Ask  them  as  have 
been  to  school  at  Tarley  :  they ’ve  learnt  pernouncing  ;  that ’s 
come  up  since  my  day.” 

“If  you’re  pointing  at  me,  Mr.  Macey,”  said  the  deputy- 
clerk,  with  an  air  of  anxious  propriety,  “  I ’m  nowise  a  man 
to  speak  out  of  my  place.  As  the  psalm  says  — 

*  I  know  what 's  right,  nor  only  so, 

But  also  practise  what  I  know.'  ” 


SILAS  MARNER. 


261 


“Well,  then,  I  -wish  you ’d  keep  hold  o’  the  tune,  when  it’s 
set  for  you ;  if  you  ’re  for  praci^w-ing,  I  wish  you ’d  prac^tsa 
that,”  said  a  large  jocose-looking  man,  an  excellent  wheel¬ 
wright  in  his  week-day  capacity,  but  on  Sundays  leader  of  the 
choir.  He  winked,  as  he  spoke,  at  two  of  the  company,  who 
were  known  officially  as  the  “  bassoon  ”  and  the  “  key-bugle,” 
in  the  confidence  that  he  was  expressing  the  sense  of  the  mu¬ 
sical  profession  in  Raveloe. 

Mr.  Tookey,  the  deputy-clerk,  who  shared  the  unpopularity 
common  to  deputies,  turned  very  red,  but  replied,  with  careful 
moderation  —  “  Mr.  Winthrop,  if  you  ’ll  bring  me  any  proof 
as  I ’m  in  the  wrong,  I ’m  not  the  man  to  say  I  won’t  alter. 
But  there ’s  people  set  up  their  own  ears  for  a  standard,  and 
expect  the  whole  choir  to  follow  ’em.  There  may  be  two 
opinions,  I  hope,” 

“  Ay,  ay,”  said  Mr.  Macey,  who  felt  very  well  satisfied  with 
this  attack  on  youthful  presumption;  “you’re  right  there, 
Tookey  :  there ’s  allays  two  ’pinions ;  there ’s  the  ’pinion  a 
man  has  of  himsen,  and  there ’s  the  ’pinion  other  folks  have 
on  him.  There ’d  be  two  ’pinions  about  a  cracked  bell,  if  the 
bell  could  hear  itself.” 

“Well,  Mr,  Macey,”  said  poor  Tookey,  serious  amidst  the 
general  laughter,  “  I  undertook  to  partially  fill  up  the  office 
of  parish-clerk  by  Mr.  Crackenthorp’s  desire,  whenever  your 
infirmities  should  make  you  unfitting  ;  and  it ’s  one  of  the 
rights  thereof  to  sing  in  the  choir  —  else  why  have  you  done 
the  same  yourself  ?  ” 

“  Ah  !  but  the  old  gentleman  and  you  are  two  folks,”  said 
Ben  Winthrop.  “  The  old  gentleman ’s  got  a  gift.  Why,  the 
Squire  used  to  invite  him  to  take  a  glass,  only  to  hear  him 
sing  the  ‘  Red  Rovier  ’ ;  did  n’t  he,  Mr.  Macey  ?  It ’s  a  nat’ral 
gift.  There ’s  my  little  lad  Aaron,  he ’s  got  a  gift  —  he  can 
sing  a  tune  off  straight,  like  a  throstle.  But  as  for  you.  Master 
Tookey,  you ’d  better  stick  to  your  ‘  Amens  ’ :  your  voice  is  well 
enough  when  you  keep  it  up  in  your  nose.  It ’s  your  inside  as 
is  n’t  right  made  for  music  :  it ’s  no  better  nor  a  hollow  stalk.” 

This  kind  of  unflinching  frankness  was  the  most  piquant 
form  of  joke  to  the  company  at  the  Rainbow,  and  Ben  Win- 


262 


SILAS  MAENER. 


throp’s  insult  was  felt  by  everybody  to  have  capped  Mr. 
Macey’s  epigram. 

“I  see  what  it  is  plain  enough/’  said  Mr.  Tookey,  unable 
to  keep  cool  any  longer.  “  There ’s  a  consperacy  to  turn  me 
out  o’  the  choir,  as  I  should  n’t  share  the  Christmas  money  — 
that ’s  where  it  is.  But  I  shall  speak  to  Mr.  Crackenthorp ; 
I  ’ll  not  be  put  upon  by  no  man.” 

“Nay,  nay,  Tookey,”  said  Ben  Winthrop.  “We’ll  pay 
you  your  share  to  keep  out  of  it  —  that ’s  what  we  ’ll  do. 
There ’s  things  folks  ’ud  pay  to  be  rid  on,  besides  varmin.” 

“Come,  come,”  said  the  landlord,  who  felt  that  paying 
people  for  their  absence  was  a  principle  dangerous  to  society  ; 
“  a  joke ’s  a  joke.  We  ’re  all  good  friends  here,  I  hope.  We 
must  give  and  take.  You  ’re-  both  right  and  you  ’re  both 
wrong,  as  I  say.  I  agree  wi’  Mr.  Macey  here,  as  there ’s  two 
opinions ;  and  if  mine  was  asked,  I  should  say  they  ’re  both 
right.  Tookey ’s  right  and  Winthrop ’s  right,  and  they  ’ve  only 
got  to  split  the  difference  and  make  themselves  even.” 

The  farrier  was  puffing  his  pipe  rather  fiercely,  in  some 
contempt  at  this  trivial  discussion.  He  had  no  ear  for  music 
himself,  and  never  went  to  church,  as  being  of  the  medical 
profession,  and  likely  to  be  in  requisition  for  delicate  cows. 
But  the  butcher,  having  music  in  his  soul,  had  listened  with 
a  divided  desire  for  Tookey’s  defeat  and  for  the  preservation 
of  the  peace. 

“  To  be  sure,”  he  said,  following  up  the  landlord’s  concilia¬ 
tory  view,  “  we  ’re  foud  of  our  old  clerk  ;  it ’s  nat’ral  and  him 
used  to  be  such  a  singer,  and  got  a  brother  as  is  known  for  the 
first  fiddler  in  this  country-side.  Eh,  it ’s  a  pity  but  what 
Solomon  lived  in  our  village,  and  could  give  us  a  tune  when 
we  liked  ;  eh,  Mr.  Macey  ?  I ’d  keep  him  in  liver  and  lights 
for  nothing  —  that  I  would.” 

“  Ay,  ay,”  said  Mr.  Macey,  in  the  height  of  complacency  ; 
“  our  family ’s  been  known  for  musicianers  as  far  back  as 
anybody  can  tell.  But  them  things  are  dying  out,  as  I  tell 
Solomon  every  time  he  comes  round ;  there ’s  no  voices  like 
what  there  used  to  be,  and  there ’s  nobody  remembers  what 
we  remember,  if  it  is  n’t  the  old  crows.” 


SILAS  MARNER. 


263 


“Ay,  you  remember  wben  first  Mr.  Lammeter’s  father  come 
into  these  parts,  don’t  you,  Mr.  Macey  ?  ”  said  the  landlord. 

“  I  should  think  I  did,”  said  the  old  man,  who  had  now 
gone  through  that  complimentary  process  necessary  to  bring 
him  up  to  the  point  of  narration ;  “  and  a  fine  old  gentleman 
he  was  —  as  fine,  and  finer  nor  the  Mr.  Lammeter  as  now  is. 
He  came  from  a  bit  north’ard,  so  far  as  I  could  ever  make  out. 
But  there ’s  nobody  rightly  knows  about  those  parts  :  only  it 
could  n’t  be  far  north’ard,  nor  much  different  from  this  coun- 
try,  for  he  brought  a  fine  breed  o’  sheep  with  him,  so  there 
must  be  pastures  there,  and  everything  reasonable.  We 
beared  tell  as  he ’d  sold  his  own  land  to  come  and  take  the 
Warrens,  and  that  seemed  odd  for  a  man  as  had  land  of  his 
own,  to  come  and  rent  a  farm  in  a  strange  place.  But  they 
said  it  was  along  of  his  wife’s  dying ;  though  there ’s  reasons 
in  things  as  nobody  knows  on  —  that ’s  pretty  much  what  I ’ve 
made  out ;  yet  some  folks  are  so  wise,  they  ’ll  find  you  fifty 
reasons  straight  off,  and  all  the  while  the  real  reason ’s  wink¬ 
ing  at  ’em  in  the  corner,  and  they  niver  see ’t.  Howsomever, 
it  was  soon  seen  as  we ’d  got  a  new  parish’ner  as  know’d  the 
rights  and  customs  o’  things,  and  kep  a  good  house,  and  was 
well  looked  on  by  everybody.  And  the  young  man  —  that ’s 
the  Mr.  Lammeter  as  now  is,  for  he ’d  niver  a  sister  —  soon 
begun  to  court  Miss  Osgood,  that’s  the  sister  o’  the  Mr, 
Osgood  as  now  is,  and  a  fine  handsome  lass  she  was  —  eh,  you 
can’t  think  —  they  pretend  this  young  lass  is  like  her,  but 
that’s  the  way  wi’  people  as  don’t  know  what  come  before 
’em.  I  should  know,  for  I  helped  the  old  rector,  Mr.  Drumlow 
as  was,  I  helped  him  marry  ’em.” 

Here  Mr.  Macey  paused ;  he  always  gave  his  narrative  in  in¬ 
stalments,  expecting  to  be  questioned  according  to  precedent. 

“  Ay,  and  a  partic’lar  thing  happened,  did  n’t  it,  Mr.  Macey, 
so  as  you  were  likely  to  remember  that  marriage  ?  ”  said  the 
landlord,  in  a  congratulatory  tone. 

“  I  should  think  there  did  —  a  very  partic’lar  thing,”  said 
Mr.  Macey,  nodding  sideways.  “For  Mr.  Drumlow — poor  old 
gentleman,  I  was  fond  on  him,  though  he ’d  got  a  bit  confused 
in  his  head,  what  wi’  age  and  wi’  taking  a  drop  o’  summat 


264 


SILAS  MARNER. 


warm  when  the  service  come  of  a  cold  morning.  And  young 
Mr.  Lammeter  he ’d  have  no  way  but  he  must  be  married  in 
Janiwary,  which,  to  be  sure,  ’s  a  unreasonable  time  to  be 
married  in,  for  it  is  n’t  like  a  christening  or  a  burying,  as  you 
can’t  help;  and  so  Mr.  Drumlow  —  poor  old  gentleman,  I  was 
fond  on  him  —  but  when  he  come  to  put  the  questions,  he  put 
’em  by  the  rule  o’  contrairy,  like,  and  he  says,  ‘  Wilt  thou  have 
this  man  to  thy  wedded  wife  ?  ’  says  he,  and  then  he  says, 
‘  Wilt  thou  have  this  woman  to  thy  wedded  husband  ?  ’  says 
he.  But  the  partic’larest  thing  of  all  is,  as  nobody  took  any 
notice  on  it  but  me,  and  they  answered  straight  off  ‘  yes,’  like 
as  if  it  had  been  me  saying  ‘  Amen  ’  i’  the  right  place,  without 
listening  to  what  went  before.” 

“  But  you  knew  what  was  going  on  well  enough,  did  n’t  you, 
Mr.  Macey  ?  You  were  live  enough,  eh  ?  ”  said  the  butcher. 

“  Lor  bless  you !  ”  said  Mr.  Macey,  pausing,  and  smiling  in 
pity  at  the  impotence  of  his  hearer’s  imagination  —  “  why,  I 
was  all  of  a  tremble :  it  was  as  if  I ’d  been  a  coat  pulled  by  the 
two  tails,  like ;  for  I  could  n’t  stop  the  parson,  I  could  n’t  take 
upon  me  to  do  that ;  and  yet  I  said  to  myself,  I  says,  ‘  Suppose 
they  should  n’t  be  fast  married,  ’cause  the  words  are  contrairy  ?  ’ 
and  my  head  went  working  like  a  mill,  for  I  was  allays  un¬ 
common  for  turning  things  over  and  seeing  all  round  ’em ; 
and  I  says  to  myself,  ‘  Is ’t  the  meanin’  or  the  words  as  makes 
folks  fast  i’  wedlock  ?  ’  For  the  parson  meant  right,  and  the 
bride  and  bridegroom  meant  right.  But  then,  when  I  come  to 
think  on  it,  meanin’  goes  but  a  little  way  i’  most  things,  for 
you  may  mean  to  stick  things  together  and  your  glue  may  be 
bad,  and  then  where  are  you  ?  And  so  I  says  to  mysen,  ‘  It 
isn’t  the  meanin’,  it’s  the  glue.”  And  I  was  worreted  as  if 
I’d  got  three  bells  to  pull  at  once,  when  we  went  into  the 
vestry,  and  they  begun  to  sign  their  names.  But  where ’s  the 
use  o’  talking  ?  —  you  can’t  think  what  goes  on  in  a  ’cute 
man’s  inside.” 

“But  you  held  in  for  all  that,  did  n’t  you,  Mr.  Macey  ?  ”  said 
the  landlord. 

“Ay,  I  held  in  tight  till  I  was  by  mysen  wi’  Mr.  Drumlow, 
and  then  I  out  wi’  everything,  but  respectful,  as  I  allays  did. 


SILAS  MARKER. 


266 


And  he  made  light  on  it,  and  he  says,  ‘  Pooh,  pooh,  Macey, 
make  yourself  easy,’  he  says  ;  ‘  it ’s  neither  the  meaning  nor 
the  words  —  it ’s  the  reyester  does  it  —  that ’s  the  glue.’  So 
you  see  he  settled  it  easy ;  for  parsons  and  doctors  know 
everything  by  heart,  like,  so  as  they  are  n’t  worreted  wi’  think¬ 
ing  what ’s  the  rights  and  wrongs  o’  things,  as  I  ’n  been  many 
and  many ’s  the  time.  And  sure  enough  the  wedding  turned 
out  all  right,  on’y  poor  Mrs.  Lammeter  —  that ’s  Miss  Osgood 
as  was  —  died  afore  the  lasses  was  growed  up  ;  but  for  pros¬ 
perity  and  everything  respectable,  there ’s  no  family  more 
looked  on.” 

Every  one  of  Mr.  Macey’s  audience  had  heard  this  story 
many  times,  but  it  was  listened  to  as  if  it  had  been  a  favorite 
tune,  and  at  certain  points  the  puffing  of  the  pipes  was  momen¬ 
tarily  suspended,  that  the  listeners  might  give  their  whole 
minds  to  the  expected  words.  But  there  was  more  to  come  ; 
and  Mr.  Snell,  the  landlord,  duly  put  the  leading  question. 

“  Why,  old  Mr.  Lammeter  had  a  pretty  fortin,  did  n’t  they 
say,  when  he  come  into  these  parts  ?  ” 

“  Well,  yes,”  said  Mr.  Macey  ;  “but  I  dare  say  it ’s  as  much 
as  this  Mr.  Lammeter’s  done  to  keep  it  whole.  For  there  was 
allays  a  talk  as  nobody  could  get  rich  on  the  Warrens :  though 
he  holds  it  cheap,  for  it ’s  what  they  call  Charity  Land.” 

“  Ay,  and  there ’s  few  folks  know  so  well  as  you  how  it  come 
to  be  Charity  Land,  eh,  Mr.  Macey  ?  ”  said  the  butcher. 

“  How  should  they  ?  ”  said  the  old  clerk,  with  some  con¬ 
tempt.  “Why,  my  grandfather  made  the  grooms’  livery  for 
that  Mr.  Cliff  as  came  and  built  the  big  stables  at  the  Warrens. 
Why,  they  ’re  stables  four  times  as  big  as  Squire  Cass’s,  for  he 
thought  o’  nothing  but  bosses  and  hunting.  Cliff  did  n’t  —  a 
Lunnon  tailor,  some  folks  said,  as  had  gone  mad  wi’  cheating. 
For  he  could  n’t  ride ;  lor  bless  you !  they  said  he ’d  got  no 
more  grip  o’  the  boss  than  if  his  legs  had  been  cross-sticks : 
my  grandfather  beared  old  Squire  Cass  say  so  many  and  many 
a  time.  But  ride  he  would  as  if  Old  Harry  had  been  a-driving 
him;  and  he’d  a  son,  a  lad  o’  sixteen  ;  and  nothing  would  his 
father  have  him  do,  but  he  must  ride  and  ride  —  though  the 
lad  was  frighted,  they  said.  And  it  was  a  common  saying  as 


266 


SILAS  MAKNER. 


the  father  wanted  to  ride  the  tailor  out  o’  the  lad,  and  make  a 
gentleman  on  him  —  not  but  what  I ’m  a  tailor  myself,  but  in 
respect  as  God  made  me  such,  I ’m  proud  on  it,  for  ‘  Macey, 
tailor,’  ’s  been  wrote  up  over  our  door  since  afore  the  Queen’s 
heads  went  out  on  the  shillings.  But  Clilf,  he  was  ashamed  o’ 
being  called  a  tailor,  and  he  was  sore  vexed  as  his  riding  was 
laughed  at,  and  nobody  o’  the  gentlefolks  hereabout  could  abide 
him.  Howsomever,  the  poor  lad  got  sickly  and  died,  and  the 
father  did  n’t  live  long  after  him,  for  he  got  queerer  nor  ever, 
and  they  said  he  used  to  go  out  i’  the  dead  o’  the  night,  wi’  a 
lantern  in  his  hand,  to  the  stables,  and  set  a  lot  o’  lights  burn¬ 
ing,  for  he  got  as  he  could  n’t  sleep ;  and  there  he ’d  stand, 
cracking  his  whip  and  looking  at  his  bosses ;  and  they  said  it 
was  a  mercy  as  the  stables  did  n’t  get  burned  down  wi’  the 
poor  dumb  creaturs  in  ’em.  But  at  last  he  died  raving,  and 
they  found  as  he ’d  left  all  his  property,  Warrens  and  all,  to 
a  Lunnon  Charity,  and  that ’s  how  the  Warrens  come  to  be 
Charity  Land ;  though,  as  for  the  stables,  Mr.  Lammeter  never 
uses  ’em  —  they  ’re  out  o’  all  charicter  —  lor  bless  you  !  if  you 
was  to  set  the  doors  a-banging  in  ’em,  it  ’ud  sound  like  thunder 
half  o’er  the  parish.” 

“  Ay,  but  there ’s  more  going  on  in  the  stables  than  what 
folks  see  by  daylight,  eh,  Mr.  Macey  ?  ”  said  the  landlord. 

“  Ay,  ay ;  go  that  way  of  a  dark  night,  that ’s  all,”  said  Mr. 
Macey,  winking  mysteriously,  “  and  then  make  believe,  if  you 
like,  as  you  did  n’t  see  lights  i’  the  stables,  nor  hear  the  stamp¬ 
ing  o’  the  bosses,  nor  the  cracking  o’  the  whips,  and  howling, 
too.  if  it ’s  tow’rt  daybreak.  ‘  Cliff’s  Holiday  ’  has  been  the 
name  of  it  ever  sin’  I  were  a  boy ;  that ’s  to  say,  some  said  as 
it  was  the  holiday  Old  Harry  gev  him  from  roasting,  like. 
That ’s  what  my  father  told  me,  and  he  was  a  reasonable  man, 
though  there’s  folks  nowadays  know  what  happened  afore 
they  were  born  better  nor  they  know  their  own  business.” 

“  What  do  you  say  to  that,  eh.  Dowlas  ?  ”  said  the  landlord, 
turning  to  the  farrier,  who  was  swelling  with  impatience  for 
his  cue.  “There ’s  a  nut  for  yoii  to  crack.” 

Mr.  Dowlas  was  the  negative  spirit  in  the  company,  and  was 
proud  of  his  position. 


SILAS  MARKER. 


267 


"  Say  ?  I  say  what  a  man  should  say  as  does  n’t  shut  his 
eyes  to  look  at  a  finger-post.  I  say,  as  I ’m  ready  to  wager 
any  man  ten  pound,  if  he  ’ll  stand  out  wi’  me  any  dry  night  in 
the  pasture  before  the  Warren  stables,  as  we  shall  neither  see 
lights  nor  hear  noises,  if  it  is  n’t  the  blowing  of  our  own  noses. 
That ’s  what  I  say,  and  I ’ve  said  it  many  a  time  ;  but  there ’s 
nobody  ’ull  ventur  a  ten-pun’  note  on  their  ghos’es  as  they  make 
so  sure  of.” 

“  Why,  Dowlas,  that ’s  easy  betting,  that  is,”  said  Ben  Win- 
throp.  “  You  might  as  well  bet  a  man  as  he  would  n’t  catch 
the  rheumatise  if  he  stood  up  to ’s  neck  in  the  pool  of  a  frosty 
night.  It  ’ud  be  fine  fun  for  a  man  to  win  his  bet  as  he ’d 
catch  the  rheumatise.  Folks  as  believe  in  Cliff’s  Holiday 
are  n’t  a-going  to  ventur  near  it  for  a  matter  o’  ten  pound.” 

“  If  Master  Dowlas  wants  to  know  the  truth  on  it,”  said  Mr. 
Macey,  with  a  sarcastic  smile,  tapping  his  thumbs  together, 
“he ’s  no  call  to  lay  any  bet  — let  him  go  and  stan’  by  himself 
—  there ’s  nobody  ’ull  hinder  him ;  and  then  he  can  let  the 
parish’ners  know  if  they  ’re  wrong.” 

“  Thank  you !  I ’m  obliged  to  you,”  said  the  farrier,  with  a 
snort  of  scorn.  “  If  folks  are  fools,  it ’s  no  business  o’  mine. 
I  don’t  want  to  make  out  the  truth  about  ghos’es  :  I  know  it 
a’ready.  But  I ’m  not  against  a  bet  —  everything  fair  and 
open.  Let  any  man  bet  me  ten  pound  as  I  shall  see  Cliff’s 
Holiday,  and  I  ’ll  go  and  stand  by  myself.  I  want  no  com¬ 
pany.  I ’d  as  lief  do  it  as  I ’d  fill  this  pipe.” 

“  Ah,  but  who ’s  to  watch  you.  Dowlas,  and  see  you  do  it  ? 
That ’s  no  fair  bet,”  said  the  butcher. 

“  No  fair  bet  ?  ”  replied  Mr.  Dowlas,  angrily.  “  I  should 
like  to  hear  any  man  stand  up  and  say  I  want  to  bet  unfair. 
Come  now.  Master  Lundy,  I  should  like  to  hear  you  say  it.” 

“Very  like  you  would,”  said  the  butcher.  “But  it’s  no 
business  o’  mine.  You  ’re  none  o’  my  bargains,  and  I  are  n’t 
a-going  to  try  and  ’bate  your  price.  If  anybody  ’ll  bid  for  you 
at  your  own  vallying,  let  him.  I ’m  for  peace  and  quietness, 
I  am.” 

“  Yes,  that ’s  what  every  yapping  cur  is,  when  you  hold  a 
stick  up  at  him,”  said  the  farrier.  “  But  I ’m  afraid  o’  neither 


268  SILAS  MAENER. 

man  nor  ghost,  and  I ’m  ready  to  lay  a  fair  bet.  I  are  n’t  a 
turn-tail  cur.” 

“  Ay,  but  there ’s  this  in  it.  Dowlas,”  said  the  landlord, 
speaking  in  a  tone  of  much  candor  and  tolerance.  There ’s 
folks,  i’  my  opinion,  they  can’t  see  ghos’es,  not  if  they  stood 
as  plain  as  a  pike-staff  before  ’em.  And  there ’s  reason  i’  that. 
For  there ’s  my  wife,  now,  can’t  smell,  not  if  she ’d  the  strong¬ 
est  o’  cheese  under  her  nose.  I  never  see’d  a  ghost  myself ; 
but  then  I  says  to  myself,  ^Very  like  I  haven’t  got  the  smell 
for  ’em.’  I  mean,  putting  a  ghost  for  a  smell,  or  else  contrairi- 
ways.  And  so,  I ’m  for  holding  with  both  sides ;  for,  as  I  say, 
the  truth  lies  between  ’em.  And  if  Dowlas  was  to  go  and 
stand,  and  say  he ’d  never  seen  a  wink  o’  Cliff’s  Holiday  all 
the  night  through,  I ’d  back  him ;  and  if  anybody  said  as 
Cliff’s  Holiday  was  certain  sure  for  all  that,  I ’d  back  him  too. 
For  the  smell ’s  what  I  go  by.” 

The  landlord’s  analogical  argument  was  not  well  received  by 
the  farrier  —  a  man  intensely  opposed  to  compromise. 

“  Tut,  tut,”  he  said,  setting  down  his  glass  with  refreshed 
irritation ;  “  what ’s  the  smell  got  to  do  with  it  ?  Did  ever  a 
ghost  give  a  man  a  black  eye  ?  That ’s  what  I  should  like  to 
know.  If  ghos’es  want  me  to  believe  in  ’em,  let  ’em  leave  off 
skulking  i’  the  dark  and  i’  lone  places  —  let  ’em  come  where 
there ’s  company  and  candles.” 

“As  if  ghos’es  ’ud  want  to  be  believed  in  by  anybody  so 
ignirant !  ”  said  Mr.  Macey,  in  deep  disgust  at  the  farrier’s 
crass  incompetence  to  apprehend  the  conditions  of  ghostly 
phenomena. 


»  ■■  ■ 

CHAPTER  VII. 

Yet  the  next  moment  there  seemed  to  be  some  evidence 
that  ghosts  had  a  more  condescending  disposition  than  Mr. 
Macey  attributed  to  them ;  for  the  pale  thin  figure  of  Silas 
Maruer  was  suddenly  seen  standing  in  the  warm  light,  utter¬ 
ing  no  word,  but  looking  round  at  the  company  with  his 


SILAS  MARNER. 


269 


strange  unearthly  eyes.  The  long  pipes  gave  a  simultaneous 
movement,  like  the  antennae  of  startled  insects,  and  every  man 
present,  not  excepting  even  the  sceptical  farrier,  had  an  im¬ 
pression  that  he  saw,  not  Silas  Marner  in  the  flesh,  but  an 
apparition ;  for  the  door  by  which  Silas  had  entered  was  hid¬ 
den  by  the  high-screened  seats,  and  no  one  had  noticed  his 
approach.  Mr.  Macey,  sitting  a  long  way  off  the  ghost,  might 
be  supposed  to  have  felt  an  argumentative  triumph,  which 
would  tend  to  neutralize  his  share  of  the  general  alarm.  Had 
he  not  always  said  that  when  Silas  Marner  was  in  that  strange 
trance  of  his,  his  soul  went  loose  from  his  body  ?  Here  was 
the  demonstration  :  nevertheless,  on  the  whole,  he  would  have 
been  as  well  contented  without  it.  For  a  few  moments  there 
was  a  dead  silence,  Marner’s  want  of  breath  and  agitation  not 
allowing  him  to  speak.  The  landlord,  under  the  habitual  sense 
that  he  was  bound  to  keep  his  house  open  to  all  company,  and 
confident  in  the  protection  of  his  unbroken  neutrality,  at  last 
took  on  himself  the  task  of  adjuring  the  ghost. 

“  Master  Marner,”  he  said,  in  a  conciliatory  tone,  “  what ’s 
lacking  to  you  ?  What ’s  your  business  here  ?  ” 

“  Robbed  !  ”  said  Silas,  gaspingly.  “  I ’ve  been  robbed  !  I 
want  the  constable  —  and  the  Justice  —  and  Squire  Cass  — 
and  Mr.  Crackenthorp.” 

“  Lay  hold  on  him,  J em  Rodney,”  said  the  landlord,  the  idea 
of  a  ghost  subsiding  ;  “  he ’s  off  his  head,  I  doubt.  He ’s  wet 
through.” 

Jem  Rodney  was  the  outermost  man,  and  sat  conveniently 
near  Marner’s  standing-place ;  but  he  declined  to  give  his 
services. 

“  Come  and  lay  hold  on  him  yourself,  Mr.  Snell,  if  you ’ve  a 
mind,”  said  Jem,  rather  sullenly.  “  He ’s  been  robbed,  and 
murdered  too,  for  what  I  know,”  he  added,  in  a  muttering  tone. 

Jem  Rodney  !”  said  Silas,  turning  and  fixing  his  strange 
eyes  on  the  suspected  man. 

“  Ay,  Master  Marner,  what  do  ye  want  wi’  me  ?  ”  said  Jem, 
trembling  a  little,  and  seizing  his  drinking-can  as  a  defensive 
weapon. 

“If  it  was  you  stole  my  money,”  said  Silas,  clasping  his 


270 


SILAS  MARNER. 


hands  entreatingly,  and  raising  his  voice  to  a  cry,  “  give  it  me 
back,  —  and  I  won’t  meddle  with  you.  I  won’t  set  the  constable 
on  you.  Give  it  me  back,  and  I  ’ll  let  you  —  I  ’ll  let  you  have 
a  guinea.” 

“  Me  stole  your  money  !  ”  said  Jem,  angrily.  “  I  ’ll  pitch 
this  can  at  your  eye  if  you  talk  o’  my  stealing  your  money.” 

‘‘  Come,  come,  Master  Marner,”  said  the  landlord,  now  rising 
resolutely,  and  seizing  Marner  by  the  shoulder,  “  if  you  ’ve  got 
any  information  to  lay,  speak  it  out  sensible,  and  show  as 
you  ’re  in  your  right  mind,  if  you  expect  anybody  to  listen  to 
you.  You  ’re  as  wet  as  a  drownded  rat.  Sit  down  and  dry 
yourself,  and  speak  straight  forrard.” 

“  Ah,  to  be  sure,  man,”  said  the  farrier,  who  began  to  feel 
that  he  had  not  been  quite  on  a  par  with  himself  and  the  occa¬ 
sion.  “  Let ’s  have  no  more  staring  and  screaming,  else  we  ’ll 
have  you  strapped  for  a  madman.  That  was  why  I  didn’t 
speak  at  the  first  —  thinks  I,  the  man ’s  run  mad.” 

“  Ay,  ay,  make  him  sit  down,”  said  several  voices  at  once, 
well  pleased  that  the  reality  of  ghosts  remained  still  an  open 
question. 

The  landlord  forced  Marner  to  take  off  his  coat,  and  then  to 
sit  down  on  a  chair  aloof  from  every  one  else,  in  the  centre  of 
the  circle  and  in  the  direct  rays  of  the  fire.  The  weaver,  too 
feeble  to  have  any  distinct  purpose  beyond  that  of  getting 
help  to  recover  his  money,  submitted  unresistingly.  The  tran¬ 
sient  fears  of  the  company  were  now  forgotten  in  their  strong 
curiosity,  and  all  faces  were  turned  towards  Silas,  when  the 
landlord,  having  seated  himself  again,  said  — 

“Now  then.  Master  Marner,  what’s  this  you ’ve  got  to  say 
—  as  you ’ve  been  robbed  ?  Speak  out.” 

“  He ’d  better  not  say  again  as  it  was  me  robbed  him,”  cried 
Jem  Rodney,  hastily.  “What  could  I  ha’  done  with  his  money  ? 
I  could  as  easy  steal  the  parson’s  surplice,  and  wear  it.” 

“  Hold  your  tongue,  Jem,  and  let ’s  hear  what  he ’s  got  to 
say,”  said  the  landlord.  “Now  then.  Master  Marner.” 

Silas  now  told  his  story,  under  frequent  questioning  as  the 
mysterious  character  of  the  robbery  became  evident. 

This  strangely  novel  situation  of  opening  his  trouble  to  his 


SILAS  MARNER. 


271 


Eaveloe  neighbors,  of  sitting  in  the  warmth  of  a  hearth  not 
his  own,  and  feeling  the  presence  of  faces  and  voices  which 
were  his  nearest  promise  of  help,  had  doubtless  its  influence 
on  Marner,  in  spite  of  his  passionate  preoccupation  with  his 
loss.  Our  consciousness  rarely  registers  the  beginning  of  a 
growth  within  us  any  more  than  without  us  :  there  have  been 
many  circulations  of  the  sap  before  we  detect  the  smallest 
sign  of  the  bud. 

The  slight  suspicion  with  which  his  hearers  at  first  listened 
to  him,  gradually  melted  away  before  the  convincing  simplicity 
of  his  distress :  it  was  impossible  for  the  neighbors  to  doubt 
that  Marner  was  telling  the  truth,  not  because  they  were  ca¬ 
pable  of  arguing  at  once  from  the  nature  of  his  statements  to 
the  absence  of  any  motive  for  making  them  falsely,  but  because, 
as  Mr.  Macey  observed,  “  Folks  as  had  the  devil  to  back  ’em 
were  not  likely  to  be  so  mushed  ”  as  poor  Silas  was.  Father, 
from  the  strange  fact  that  the  robber  had  left  no  traces,  and 
had  happened  to  know  the  nick  of  time,  utterly  incalculable 
by  mortal  agents,  when  Silas  would  go  away  from  home  with¬ 
out  locking  his  door,  the  more  probable  conclusion  seemed  to 
be,  that  his  disreputable  intimacy  in  that  quarter,  if  it  ever 
existed,  had  been  broken  up,  and  that,  in  consequence,  this  ill 
turn  had  been  done  to  Marner  by  somebody  it  was  quite  in 
vain  to  set  the  constable  after.  Why  this  preternatural  felon 
should  be  obliged  to  wait  till  the  door  was  left  unlocked,  was 
a  question  which  did  not  present  itself. 

“  It  is  n’t  Jem  Eodney  as  has  done  this  work,  Master 
Marner,”  said  the  landlord.  “You  mustn’t  be  a-casting  your 
eye  at  poor  Jem.  There  may  be  a  bit  of  a  reckoning  against 
Jem  for  the  matter  of  a  hare  or  so,  if  anybody  was  bound  to 
keep  their  eyes  staring  open,  and  niver  to  wink;  but  Jem’s 
been  a-sitting  here  drinking  his  can,  like  the  decentest  man  i’ 
the  parish,  since  before  you  left  your  house,  Master  Marner, 
by  your  own  account.” 

“  Ay,  ay,”  said  Mr.  Macey  ;  “  let ’s  have  no  accusing  o’  the 
innicent.  That  is  n’t  the  law.  There  must  be  folks  to  swear 
again’  a  man  before  he  can  be  ta’en  up.  Let ’s  have  no  accus¬ 
ing  o’  the  innicent.  Master  Marner.” 


272 


SILAS  MARNER. 


Memory  was  not  so  utterly  torpid  in  Silas  that  it  could  not 
be  wakened  by  these  words.  With  a  movement  of  compunc¬ 
tion  as  new  and  strange  to  him  as  everything  else  within  the 
last  hour,  he  started  from  his  chair  and  went  close  up  to  Jem, 
looking  at  him  as  if  he  wanted  to  assure  himself  of  the  ex¬ 
pression  in  his  face. 

‘‘  I  was  wrong,’’  he  said  —  ‘‘  yes,  yes  —  I  ought  to  have 
thought.  There ’s  nothing  to  witness  against  you,  Jem.  Only 
you ’d  been  into  my  house  oftener  than  anybody  else,  and  so 
you  came  into  my  head.  I  don’t  accuse  you  —  I  won’t  accuse 
anybody  —  only,”  he  added,  lifting  up  his  hands  to  his  head, 
and  turning  away  with  bewildered  misery,  ‘‘I  try — I  try  to 
think  where  my  guineas  can  be.” 

“  Ay,  ay,  they  ’re  gone  where  it ’s  hot  enough  to  melt  ’em, 
I  doubt,”  said  Mr.  Macey. 

“  Tchuh !  ”  said  the  farrier.  And  then  he  asked,  with  a 
cross-examining  air,  “  How  much  money  might  there  be  in  the 
bags.  Master  Marner  ?  ” 

“Two  hundred  and  seventy -two  pounds,  twelve  and  six¬ 
pence,  last  night  when  I  counted  it,”  said  Silas,  seating  him¬ 
self  again,  with  a  groan. 

“  Pooh !  why,  they ’d  be  none  so  heavy  to  carry.  Some 
tramp ’s  been  in,  that ’s  all ;  and  as  for  the  no  footmarks,  and 
the  bricks  and  the  sand  being  all  right  —  why,  your  eyes  are 
pretty  much  like  a  insect’s,  Master  Marner ;  they  ’re  obliged 
to  look  so  close,  you  can’t  see  much  at  a  time.  It ’s  my 
opinion  as,  if  I ’d  been  you,  or  you ’d  been  me  —  for  it  comes 
to  the  same  thing  —  you  would  n’t  have  thought  you ’d  found 
everything  as  you  left  it.  But  what  I  vote  is,  as  two  of  the 
sensiblest  o’  the  company  should  go  with  you  to  Master  Kench, 
the  constable’s  —  he ’s  ill  i’  bed,  I  know  that  much  —  and  get 
him  to  appoint  one  of  us  his  deppity  ;  for  that ’s  the  law,  and 
I  don’t  think  anybody  ’  ull  take  upon  him  to  contradick  me 
there.  It  is  n’t  much  of  a  walk  to  Kench’s  ;  and  then,  if  it ’s 
me  as  is  deppity,  I  ’ll  go  back  with  you.  Master  Marner,  and 
examine  your  premises  ;  and  if  anybody’s  got  any  fault  to  find 
with  that,  I’ll  thank  him  to  stand  up  and  say  it  out  like  a 
m&m” 


SILAS  MARNER. 


273 


By  this  pregnant  speech  the  farrier  had  re-established  his 
self-complacency,  and  waited  with  confidence  to  hear  himself 
named  as  one  of  the  superlatively  sensible  men. 

“  Let  us  see  how  the  night  is,  though,”  said  the  landlord, 
who  also  considered  himself  personally  concerned  in  this  propo¬ 
sition.  “  Why,  it  rains  heavy  still,”  he  said,  returning  from 
the  door. 

Well,  I ’m  not  the  man  to  be  afraid  o’  the  rain,”  said  the 
farrier.  “For  it’ll  look  bad  when  Justice  Malam  hears  as  re¬ 
spectable  men  like  us  had  a  information  laid  before  ’em  and 
took  no  steps.” 

The  landlord  agreed  with  this  view,  and  after  taking  the 
sense  of  the  company,  and  duly  rehearsing  a  small  ceremony 
known  in  high  ecclesiastical  life  as  the  nolo  episcopari,  he  con¬ 
sented  to  take  on  himself  the  chill  dignity  of  going  to  Kench’s. 
But  to  the  farrier’s,  strong  disgust,  Mr.  Macey  now  started  an 
objection  to  his  proposing  himself  as  a  deputy-constable  ;  for 
that  oracular  old  gentleman,  claiming  to  know  the  law,  stated, 
as  a  fact  delivered  to  him  by  his  father,  that  no  doctor  could 
be  a  constable. 

“  And  you  ’re  a  doctor,  I  reckon,  though  you  ’re  only  a  cow- 
doctor —  for  a  fly ’s  a  fly,  though  it  may  be  a  hoss-fly,”  con¬ 
cluded  Mr.  Macey,  wondering  a  little  at  his  own  “  ’cuteness.” 

There  was  a  hot  debate  upon  this,  the  farrier  being  of 
course  indisposed  to  renounce  the  quality  of  doctor,  but  con¬ 
tending  that  a  doctor  could  be  a  constable  if  he  liked  —  the 
law  meant,  he  need  n’t  be  one  if  he  did  n’t  like.  Mr.  Macey 
thought  this  was  nonsense,  since  the  law  was  not  likely  to  be 
fonder  of  doctors  than  of  other  folks.  Moreover,  if  it  was  in 
the  nature  of  doctors  more  than  of  other  men  not  to  like  being 
constables,  how  came  Mr.  Dowlas  to  be  so  eager  to  act  in  that 
capacity  ? 

“7  don’t  want  to  act  the  constable,”  said  the  farrier,  driven 
into  a  corner  by  this  merciless  reasoning;  “and  there’s  no 
man  can  say  it  of  me,  if  he ’d  tell  the  truth.  But  if  there ’s  to 
be  any  jealousy  and  envying  about  going  to  Kench’s  in  the 
rain,  let  them  go  as  like  it  —  you  won’t  get  me  to  go,  I  can 
tell  you.” 

VOL.  VI. 


16 


274 


SILAS  MARNER. 


By  the  landlord’s  intervention,  however,  the  dispute  was  ao- 
commodated.  Mr.  Dowlas  consented  to  go  as  a  second  person 
disinclined  to  act  officially  ;  and  so  poor  Silas,  furnished  with 
some  old  coverings,  turned  out  with  his  two  companions  into 
the  rain  again,  thinking  of  the  long  night-hours  before  him, 
not  as  those  do  who  long  to  rest,  but  as  those  who  expect  to 
‘  watch  for  the  morning.” 


♦ 


CHAPTER  VIIL 

When  Godfrey  Cass  returned  from  Mrs.  Osgood’s  party 
at  midnight,  he  was  not  much  surprised  to  learn  that  Dunsey 
had  not  come  home.  Perhaps  he  had  not  sold  Wildfire,  and 
was  waiting  for  another  chance  —  perhaps,  on  that  foggy 
afternoon,  he  had  preferred  housing  himself  at  the  Red  Lion 
at  Batherley  for  the  night,  if  the  run  had  kept  him  in  that 
neighborhood ;  for  he  was  not  likely  to  feel  much  concern 
about  leaving  his  brother  in  suspense.  Godfrey’s  mind  was 
too  full  of  Nancy  Lammeter’s  looks  and  behavior,  too  full  of 
the  exasperation  against  himself  and  his  lot,  which  the  sight 
of  her  always  produced  in  him,  for  him  to  give  much  thought 
to  Wildfire,  or  to  the  probabilities  of  Dunstan’s  conduct. 

The  next  morning  the  whole  village  was  excited  by  the 
story  of  the  robbery,  and  Godfrey,  like  every  one  else,  was 
occupied  in  gathering  and  discussing  news  about  it,  and  in 
visiting  the  Stone-pits.  The  rain  had  washed  away  all  possi¬ 
bility  of  distinguishing  foot-marks,  but  a  close  investigation 
of  the  spot  had  disclosed,  in  the  direction  opposite  to  the 
village,  a  tinder-box,  with  a  flint  and  steel,  half  sunk  in  the 
mud.  It  was  not  Silas’s  tinder-box,  for  the  only  one  he  had 
ever  had  was  still  standing  on  his  shelf ;  and  the  inference 
generally  accepted  was,  that  the  tinder-box  in  the  ditch  was 
somehow  connected  with  the  robbery.  A  small  minority 
shook  their  heads,  and  intimated  their  opinion  that  it  was  not 


SILAS  MARNER. 


275 


a  robbery  to  have  much  light  thrown  on  it  by  tinder-boxes, 
that  Master  Marner’s  tale  had  a  queer  look  with  it,  and  that 
such  things  had  been  known  as  a  man’s  doing  himself  a  mis¬ 
chief,  and  then  setting  the  justice  to  look  for  the  doer.  But 
when  questioned  closely  as  to  their  grounds  for  this  opinion, 
and  what  Master  Marner  had  to  gain  by  such  false  pretences, 
they  only  shook  their  heads  as  before,  and  observed  that  there 
was  no  knowing  what  some  folks  counted  gain ;  moreover, 
that  everybody  had  a  right  to  their  own  opinions,  grounds  or 
no  grounds,  and  that  the  weaver,  as  everybody  knew,  was 
partly  crazy.  Mr.  Macey,  though  he  joined  in  the  defence  of 
Marner  against  all  suspicions  of  deceit,  also  pooh-poohed  the 
tinder-box ;  indeed,  repudiated  it  as  a  rather  impious  sugges¬ 
tion,  tending  to  imply  that  everything  must  be  done  by  human 
hands,  and  that  there  was  no  power  which  could  make  away 
with  the  guineas  without  moving  the  bricks.  Nevertheless, 
he  turned  round  rather  sharply  on  Mr.  Tookey,  when  the  zeal¬ 
ous  deputy,  feeling  that  this  was  a  view  of  the  case  peculiarly 
suited  to  a  parish-clerk,  carried  it  still  further,  and  doubted 
whether  it  was  right  to  inquire  into  a  robbery  at  all  when  the 
circumstances  were  so  mysterious. 

‘‘  As  if,”  concluded  Mr.  Tookey  —  as  if  there  was  nothing 
but  what  could  be  made  out  by  justices  and  constables.” 

“  Now,  don’t  you  be  for  overshooting  the  mark,  Tookey,” 
said  Mr.  Macey,  nodding  his  head  aside  admonishingly. 
“  That ’s  what  you  ’re  allays  at ;  if  I  throw  a  stone  and  hit, 
you  think  there ’s  summat  better  than  hitting,  and  you  try  to 
throw  a  stone  beyond.  What  I  said  was  against  the  tinder- 
box  :  I  said  nothing  against  justices  and  constables,  for  they  ’re 
o’  King  George’s  making,  and  it  ’ud  be  ill-becoming  a  man  in 
a  parish  office  to  fly  out  again’  King  George.” 

While  these  discussions  were  going  on  among  the  group 
outside  the  Rainbow,  a  higher  consultation  was  being  carried 
on  within,  under  the  presidency  of  Mr.  Crackenthorp,  the 
Rector,  assisted  by  Squire  Cass  and  other  substantial  parish¬ 
ioners.  It  had  just  occurred  to  Mr.  Snell,  the  landlord  —  he 
being,  as  he  observed,  a  man  accustomed  to  put  two  and  two 
together  —  to  connect  with  the  tinder-box,  which,  as  deputy- 


276 


SILAS  MARKER. 


constable,  he  himself  had  had  the  honorable  distinction  of 
finding,  certain  recollections  of  a  pedler  who  had  called  to 
drink  at  the  house  about  a  month  before,  and  had  actually 
stated  that  he  carried  a  tinder-box  about  with  him  to  light  his 
pipe.  Here,  surely,  was  a  clew  to  be  followed  out.  And  as 
memory,  when  duly  impregnated  with  ascertained  facts,  is 
sometimes  surprisingly  fertile,  Mr.  Snell  gradually  recovered 
a  vivid  impression  of  the  effect  produced  on  him  by  the  ped- 
ler’s  countenance  and  conversation.  He  had  a  “  look  with 
his  eye  ”  which  fell  unpleasantly  on  Mr.  Snell’s  sensitive 
organism.  To  be  sure,  he  did  n’t  say  anything  particular  — 
no,  except  that  about  the  tinder-box  —  but  it  is  n’t  what  a  man 
says,  it ’s  the  way  he  says  it.  Moreover,  he  had  a  swarthy 
foreignness  of  complexion  which  boded  little  honesty. 

“  Did  he  wear  ear-rings  ?  ”  Mr.  Crackenthorp  wished  to 
know,  having  some  acquaintance  with  foreign  customs. 

“Well  —  stay  —  let  me  see,”  said  Mr.  Snell,  like  a  docile 
clairvoyant,  who  would  really  not  make  a  mistake  if  she 
could  help  it.  After  stretching  the  corners  of  his  mouth  and 
contracting  his  eyes,  as  if  he  were  trying  to  see  the  ear-rings, 
he  appeared  to  give  up  the  effort,  and  said,  “  Well,  he ’d  got 
ear-rings  in  his  box  to  sell,  so  it ’s  nat’ral  to  suppose  he  might 
wear  ’em.  But  he  called  at  every  house,  a’most,  in  the  vil¬ 
lage  ;  there ’s  somebody  else,  mayhap,  saw  ’em  in  his  ears, 
though  I  can’t  take  upon  me  rightly  to  say.” 

Mr.  Snell  was  correct  in  his  surmise,  that  somebody  else 
would  remember  the  pedler’s  ear-rings.  For  on  the  spread 
of  inquiry  among  the  villagers  it  was  stated  with  gathering 
emphasis,  that  the  parson  had  wanted  to  know  whether  the 
pedler  wore  ear-rings  in  his  ears,  and  an  impression  was 
created  that  a  great  deal  depended  on  the  eliciting  of  this 
fact.  Of  course,  every  one  who  heard  the  question,  not  hav¬ 
ing  any  distinct  image  of  the  pedler  as  without  ear-rings, 
immediately  had  an  image  of  him  with  ear-rings,  larger  or 
smaller,  as  the  case  might  be;  and  the  image  was  presently 
taken  for  a  vivid  recollection,  so  that  the  glazier’s  wife,  a 
well-intentioned  woman,  not  given  to  lying,  and  whose  house 
was  among  the  cleanest  in  \he  village,  was  ready  to  declare. 


SILAS  MARNER. 


277 


as  sure  as  ever  she  meant  to  take  the  sacrament  the  very  next 
Christmas  that  was  ever  coming,  that  she  had  seen  big  ear¬ 
rings,  in  the  shape  of  the  young  moon,  in  the  pedler’s  two 
ears  ;  while  Jinny  Oates,  the  cobbler’s  daughter,  being  a  more 
imaginative  person,  stated  not  only  that  she  had  seen  them 
too,  but  that  they  had  made  her  blood  creep,  as  it  did  at  that 
very  moment  while  there  she  stood. 

Also,  by  way  of  throwing  further  light  on  this  clew  of  the 
tinder-box,  a  collection  was  made  of  all  the  articles  purchased 
from  the  pedler  at  various  houses,  and  carried  to  the  Rainbow 
to  be  exhibited  there.  In  fact,  there  was  a  general  feeling  in 
the  village,  that  for  the  clearing-up  of  this  robbery  there  must 
be  a  great  deal  done  at  the  Rainbow,  and  that  no  man  need 
offer  his  wife  an  excuse  for  going  there  while  it  was  the  scene 
of  severe  public  duties. 

Some  disappointment  was  felt,  and  perhaps  a  little  indigna¬ 
tion  also,  when  it  became  known  that  Silas  Marner,  on  being 
questioned  by  the  Squire  and  the  parson,  had  retained  no  other 
recollection  of  the  pedler  than  that  he  had  called  at  his  door, 
but  had  not  entered  his  house,  having  turned  away  at  once 
when  Silas,  holding  the  door  ajar,  had  said  that  he  wanted 
nothing.  This  had  been  Silas’s  testimony,  though  he  clutched 
strongly  at  the  idea  of  the  pedler’s  being  the  culprit,  if  only 
because  it  gave  him  a  definite  image  of  a  whereabout  for  his 
gold  after  it  had  been  taken  away  from  its  hiding-place :  he 
could  see  it  now  in  the  pedler’s  box.  But  it  was  observed 
with  some  irritation  in  the  village,  that  anybody  but  a  “  blind 
creatur  ”  like  Marner  would  have  seen  the  man  prowling  about, 
for  how  came  he  to  leave  his  tinder-box  in  the  ditch  close  by, 
if  he  had  n’t  been  lingering  there  ?  Doubtless,  he  had  made 
his  observations  when  he  saw  Marner  at  the  door.  Anybody 
might  know  —  and  only  look  at  him  —  that  the  weaver  was 
a  half-crazy  miser.  It  was  a  wonder  the  pedler  had  n’t  mur¬ 
dered  him ;  men  of  that  sort,  with  rings  in  their  ears,  had 
been  known  for  murderers  often  and  often ;  there  had  been 
one  tried  at  the  ’sizes,  not  so  long  ago  but  what  there  were 
people  living  who  remembered  it. 

Godfrey  Cass,  indeed,  entering  the  Rainbow  during  one  of 


278 


SILAS  MARNEE. 


Mr.  Snell’s  frequently  repeated  recitals  of  his  testinaony.  had 
treated  it  lightly,  stating  that  he  himself  had  bought  a  pen¬ 
knife  of  the  pedler,  and  thought  him  a  merry  grinning  fellow 
enough  ;  it  was  all  nonsense,  he  said,  about  the  man’s  evil 
looks.  But  this  was  spoken  of  in  the  village  as  the  random 
talk  of  youth,  as  if  it  was  only  Mr,  Snell  who  had  seen  some¬ 
thing  odd  about  the  pedler  !  ”  On  the  contrary,  there  were  at 
least  half-a-dozen  who  were  ready  to  go  before  Justice  Malam, 
and  give  in  much  more  striking  testimony  than  any  the  land¬ 
lord  could  furnish.  It  was  to  be  hoped  Mr,  Godfrey  would 
not  go  to  Tarley  and  throw  cold  water  on  what  Mr.  Snell  said 
there,  and  so  prevent  the  justice  from  drawing  up  a  warrant. 
He  was  suspected  of  intending  this,  when,  after  mid-day,  he 
was  seen  setting  off  on  horseback  in  the  direction  of  Tarley. 

But  by  this  time  Godfrey’s  interest  in  the  robbery  had  faded 
before  his  growing  anxiety  about  Dunstan  and  Wildfire,  and 
he  was  going,  not  to  Tarley,  but  to  Batherley,  unable  to  rest  in 
uncertainty  about  them  any  longer.  The  possibility  that  Dun¬ 
stan  had  played  him  the  ugly  trick  of  riding  away  with  Wild¬ 
fire,  to  return  at  the  end  of  a  month,  when  he  had  gambled 
away  or  otherwise  squandered  the  price  of  the  horse,  was  a 
fear  that  urged  itself  upon  him  more,  even,  than  the  thought 
of  an  accidental  injury  ;  and  now  that  the  dance  at  Mrs.  Os¬ 
good’s  was  past,  he  was  irritated  with  himself  that  he  had 
trusted  his  horse  to  Dunstan.  Instead  of  trying  to  still  his 
fears  he  encouraged  them,  with  that  superstitious  impression 
which  clings  to  us  all,  that  if  we  expect  evil  very  strongly  it 
is  the  less  likely  to  come ;  and  when  he  heard  a  horse  ap¬ 
proaching  at  a  trot,  and  saw  a  hat  rising  above  a  hedge  beyond 
an  angle  of  the  lane,  he  felt  as  if  his  conjuration  had  succeeded. 
But  no  sooner  did  the  horse  come  within  sight,  than  his  heart 
sank  again.  It  was  not  Wildfire  ;  and  in  a  few  moments  more 
he  discerned  that  the  rider  was  not  Dunstan,  but  Bryce,  who 
pulled  up  to  speak,  with  a  face  that  implied  something  dis¬ 
agreeable. 

“Well,  Mr.  Godfrey,  that’s  a  lucky  brother  of  yours,  that 
Master  Dunsey,  is  n’t  he  ?  ” 

“  What  do  you  mean  ?  ”  said  Godfrey,  hastily. 


SILAS  MARKER. 


279 


Why,  has  n’t  he  been  home  yet  ?  ”  said  Bryce. 

“  Home  ?  no.  What  has  happened  ?  Be  quick.  What  has 
he  done  with  my  horse  ?  ” 

“  Ah,  I  thought  it  was  yours,  though  he  pretended  you  had 
parted  with  it  to  him.” 

“  Has  he  thrown  him  down  and  broken  his  knees  ?  ”  said 
Godfrey,  flushed  with  exasperation. 

“  Worse  than  that,”  said  Bryce.  You  see,  I ’d  made  a 
bargain  with  him  to  buy  the  horse  for  a  hundred  and  twenty 
—  a  swinging  price,  but  I  always  liked  the  horse.  And  what 
does  he  do  but  go  and  stake  him  —  fly  at  a  hedge  with  stakes 
in  it,  atop  of  a  bank  with  a  ditch  before  it.  The  horse  had 
been  dead  a  pretty  good  while  when  he  was  found.  So  he 
has  n’t  been  home  since,  has  he  ?  ” 

“Home?  no,”  said  Godfrey,  “and  he’d  better  keep  away. 
Confound  me  for  a  fool !  I  might  have  known  this  would  be 
the  end  of  it.” 

“Well,  to  tell  you  the  truth,”  said  Bryce,  “after  I’d  bar¬ 
gained  for  the  horse,  it  did  come  into  my  head  that  he  might 
be  riding  and  selling  the  horse  without  your  knowledge,  for 
I  did  n’t  believe  it  was  his  own.  I  knew  Master  Dunsey  was 
up  to  his  tricks  sometimes.  But  where  can  he  be  gone  ?  He ’s 
never  been  seen  at  Batherley.  He  could  n’t  have  been  hurt, 
for  he  must  have  walked  off.” 

“  Hurt  ?  ”  said  Godfrey,  bitterly.  “  He  ’ll  never  be  hurt  — 
he ’s  made  to  hurt  other  people.” 

“  And  so  you  did  give  him  leave  to  sell  the  horse,  eh  ?  ”  said 
Bryca 

“Yes;  I  wanted  to  part  with  the  horse  —  he  was  always 
a  little  too  hard  in  the  mouth  for  me,”  said  Godfrey ;  his  pride 
making  him  wince  under  the  idea  that  Bryce  guessed  the  sale 
to  be  a  matter  of  necessity.  “  I  was  going  to  see  after  him  — 
I  thought  some  mischief  had  happened.  I  ’ll  go  back  now,” 
he  added,  turning  the  horse’s  head,  and  wishing  he  could  get 
rid  of  Bryce ;  for  he  felt  that  the  long-dreaded  crisis  in  his 
life  was  close  upon  him.  “You’re  coming  on  to  Raveloe, 
arc  n’t  you  ?  ” 

“Well,  no,  not  now,”  said  Bryce.  “I  was  coming  round 


280 


SILAS  MARNER. 


there,  for  I  had  to  go  to  Flitton,  aud  I  thought  I  might  as 
well  take  you  in  my.  way,  and  just  let  you  know  ail  I  knew 
myself  about  the  horse.  I  suppose  Master  Dunsey  did  n’t  like 
to  show  himself  till  the  ill  news  had  blown  over  a  bit.  He ’s 
perhaps  gone  to  pay  a  visit  at  the  Three  Crowns,  by  Whit- 
bridge  —  I  know  he ’s  fond  of  the  house.” 

“Perhaps  he  is,”  said  Godfrey,  rather  absently.  Then  rous¬ 
ing  himself,  he  said,  with  an  effort  at  carelessness,  “We  shall 
hear  of  him  soon  enough,  I  ’ll  be  bound.” 

“  Well,  here ’s  my  turning,”  said  Bryce,  not  surprised  to 
perceive  that  Godfrey  was  rather  “  down ;  ”  “  so  I  ’ll  bid  you 
good-day,  and  wish  I  may  bring  you  better  news  another 
time.” 

Godfrey  rode  along  slowly,  representing  to  himself  the  scene 
of  confession  to  his  father  from  which  he  felt  that  there  was 
now  no  longer  any  escape.  The  revelation  about  the  money 
must  be  made  the  very  next  morning ;  and  if  he  withheld  the 
rest,  Dunstan  would  be  sure  to  come  back  shortly,  and,  finding 
that  he  must  bear  the  brunt  of  his  father’s  anger,  would  tell 
the  whole  story  out  of  spite,  even  though  he  had  nothing  to 
gain  by  it.  There  was  one  step,  perhaps,  by  which  he  might 
still  win  Dunstan’s  silence  and  put  off  the  evil  day :  he  might 
tell  his  father  that  he  had  himself  spent  the  money  paid  to 
him  by  Fowler ;  and  as  he  had  never  been  guilty  of  such  an 
offence  before,  the  affair  would  blow  over  after  a  little  storm¬ 
ing.  But  Godfrey  could  not  bend  himself  to  this.  He  felt 
that  in  letting  Dunstan  have  the  money,  he  had  already  been 
guilty  of  a  breach  of  trust  hardly  less  culpable  than  that  of 
spending  the  money  directly  for  his  own  behoof ;  and  yet 
there  was  a  distinction  between  the  two  acts  which  made  him 
feel  that  the  one  was  so  much  more  blackening  than  the  other 
as  to  be  intolerable  to  him. 

“  I  don’t  pretend  to  be  a  good  fellow,”  he  said  to  himself ; 
“but  I ’m  not  a  scoundrel  —  at  least,  I  ’ll  stop  short  some¬ 
where.  I’ll  bear  the  consequences  of  what  I  have  done  sooner 
than  make  believe  I ’ve  done  what  I  never  would  have  done. 
I ’d  never  have  spent  the  money  for  my  own  pleasure  —  I  was 
tortured  into  it.” 


SILAS  MARNER. 


281 


Through  the  remainder  of  this  day  Godfrey,  with  only 
occasional  fluctuations,  kept  his  will  bent  in  the  direction  of 
a  complete  avowal  to  his  father,  and  he  withheld  the  story 
of  Wildfire’s  loss  till  the  next  morning,  that  it  might  serve 
him  as  an  introduction  to  heavier  matter.  The  old  Squire 
was  accustomed  to  his  son’s  frequent  absence  from  home,  and 
thought  neither  Dunstan’s  nor  Wildfire’s  non-appearance  a  mat¬ 
ter  calling  for  remark.  Godfrey  said  to  himself  again  and 
again,  that  if  he  let  slip  this  one  opportunity  of  confession,  he 
might  never  have  another;  the  revelation  might  be  made  even 
in  a  more  odious  way  than  by  Dunstan’s  malignity:  she  might 
come  as  she  had  threatened  to  do.  And  then  he  tried  to  make 
the  scene  easier  to  himself  by  rehearsal :  he  made  up  his  mind 
how  he  would  pass  from  the  admission  of  his  weakness  in 
letting  Dunstan  have  the  money  to  the  fact  that  Dunstan  had 
a  hold  on  him  which  he  had  been  unable  to  shake  off,  and  how 
he  would  work  up  his  father  to  expect  something  very  bad 
before  he  told  him  the  fact.  The  old  Squire  was  an  implacable 
man :  he  made  resolutions  in  violent  anger,  and  he  was  not  to 
be  moved  from  them  after  his  anger  had  subsided — as  fiery 
volcanic  matters  cool  and  harden  into  rock.  Like  many  violent 
and  implacable  men,  he  allowed  evils  to  grow  under  favor  of 
his  own  heedlessness,  till  they  pressed  upon  him  with  exas¬ 
perating  force,  and  then  he  turned  round  with  fierce  severity 
and  became  unrelentingly  hard.  This  was  his  system  with 
his  tenants  :  he  allowed  them  to  get  into  arrears,  neglect  their 
fences,  reduce  their  stock,  sell  their  straw,  and  otherwise  go 
the  wrong  way,  —  and  then,  when  he  became  short  of  money 
in  consequence  of  this  indulgence,  he  took  the  hardest  meas¬ 
ures  and  would  listen  to  no  appeal.  Godfrey  knew  all  this, 
and  felt  it  with  the  greater  force  because  he  had  constantly 
suffered  annoyance  from  witnessing  his  father’s  sudden  fits 
of  unrelentingness,  for  which  his  own  habitual  irresolution 
deprived  him  of  all  sympathy.  (He  was  not  critical  on  the 
faulty  indulgence  which  preceded  these  fits  ;  that  seemed  to 
him  natural  enough.)  Still  there  was  just  the  chance,  Godfrey 
thought,  that  his  father’s  pride  might  see  this  marriage  in  a 
light  that  would  induce  him  to  hush  it  up,  rather  than  turn 


282 


SILAS  MAKNER. 


his  son  out  and  make  the  family  the  talk  of  the  country  for 
ten  miles  round. 

This  was  the  view  of  the  case  that  Godfrey  managed  to 
keep  before  him  pretty  closely  till  midnight,  and  he  went  to 
sleep  thinking  that  he  had  done  with  inward  debating.  But 
when  he  awoke  in  the  still  morning  darkness  he  found  it 
impossible  to  reawaken  his  evening  thoughts;  it  was  as  if  they 
had  been  tired  out  and  were  not  to  be  roused  to  further  work. 
Instead  of  arguments  for  confession,  he  could  now  feel  the 
presence  of  nothing  but  its  evil  consequences :  the  old  dread 
of  disgrace  came  back  —  the  old  shrinking  from  the  thought 
of  raising  a  hopeless  barrier  between  himself  and  Nanc}'^  —  the 
old  disposition  to  rely  on  chances  which  might  be  favorable  to 
him,  and  save  him  from  betrayal.  Why,  after  all,  should  he 
cut  off  the  hope  of  them  by  his  own  act  ?  He  had  seen  the 
matter  in  a  wrong  light  yesterday.  He  had  been  in  a  rage 
with  Dunstan,  and  had  thought  of  nothing  but  a  thorough 
break-up  of  their  mutual  understanding ;  but  what  it  would  be 
really  wisest  for  him  to  do,  was  to  try  and  soften  his  father’s 
anger  against  Dunse}’^,  and  keep  things  as  nearly  as  possible  in 
their  old  condition.  If  Dunsey  did  not  come  back  for  a  few 
days  (and  Godfrey  did  not  know  but  that  the  rascal  had  enough 
money  in  his  pocket  to  enable  him  to  keep  away  still  longer), 
everything  might  blow  over. 


♦ 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Godfrey  rose  and  took  his  own  breakfast  earlier  than  usual, 
but  lingered  in  the  wainscoted  parlor  till  his  younger  brothers 
had  finished  their  meal  and  gone  out ;  awaiting  his  father, 
who  always  took  a  walk  with  his  managing-man  before  break¬ 
fast.  Every  one  breakfasted  at  a  different  hour  in  the  Red 
House,  and  the  Squire  was  always  the  latest,  giving  a  long 
chance  to  a  rather  feeble  morning  appetite  before  he  tried  it» 


SILAS  MAKNER. 


i^83 


The  table  had  been  spread  with  substantial  eatables  nearly 
two  hours  before  he  presented  himself — a  tall,  stout  man  of 
sixty,  with  a  face  in  which  the  knit  brow  and  rather  hard 
glance  seemed  contradicted  by  the  slack  and  feelde  mouth. 
His  person  showed  marks  of  habitual  neglect,  his  dress  was 
slovenly ;  and  yet  there  was  something  in  the  presence  of  the 
old  Squire  distinguishable  from  that  of  the  ordinary  farmers 
in  the  parish,  who  were  perhaps  every  whit  as  refined  as  he, 
but,  having  slouched  their  way  through  life  with  a  conscious¬ 
ness  of  being  in  the  vicinity  of  their  “  betters,”  wanted  that 
self-possession  and  autlioritativeness  of  voice  and  carriage 
which  belonged  to  a  man  who  thought  of  superiors  as  remote 
existences  with  whom  he  had  personally  little  more  to  do 
than  with  America  or  the  stars.  The  Squire  had  been  used 
to  parish  homage  all  his  life,  used  to  the  presupposition  that 
his  family,  his  tankards,  and  everything  that  was  his,  were 
the  oldest  and  best;  and  as  he  never  associated  with  any 
gentry  higher  than  himself,  his  opinion  was  not  disturbed  by 
comparison. 

He  glanced  at  his  son  as  he  entered  the  room,  and  said, 
“  What,  sir  !  have  n’t  you  had  your  breakfast  yet  ?  ”  but  there 
was  no  pleasant  morning  greeting  between  them  ;  not  because 
of  any  unfriendliness,  but  because  the  sweet  flower  of  courtesy 
is  not  a  growth  of  such  homes  as  the  Red  House. 

“Yes,  sir,”  said  Godfrey,  “I ’ve  had  my  breakfast,  but  I  was 
waiting  to  speak  to  you.” 

“  Ah  !  well,”  said  the  Squire,  throwing  himself  indifferently 
into  his  chair,  and  speaking  in  a  ponderous  coughing  fashion, 
which  was  felt  in  Raveloe  to  be  a  sort  of  privilege  of  his  rank, 
while  he  cut  a  piece  of  beef,  and  held  it  up  before  the  deer¬ 
hound  that  had  come  in  with  him.  “Ring  the  bell  for  my 
ale,  will  you  ?  You  youngsters’  business  is  your  own  pleas¬ 
ure,  mostly.  There ’s  no  hurry  about  it  for  anybody  but 
yourselves.” 

The  Squire’s  life  was  quite  as  idle  as  his  sons’,  but  it  was  a 
fiction  kept  up  by  himself  and  his  contemporaries  in  Raveloe 
that  youth  was  exclusively  the  period  of  folly,  and  that  their 
aged  wisdom  was  constantly  in  a  state  of  endurance  mitigated 


284 


SILAS  MARNER. 


by  sarcasm.  Godfrey  waited,  before  he  spoke  again,  until 
the  ale  had  been  brought  and  the  doer  closed  —  an  interval 
during  which  Fleet,  the  deer-hound,  had  consumed  enough 
bits  of  beef  to  make  a  poor  man’s  holiday  dinner. 

“  There ’s  been  a  cursed  piece  of  ill-luck  with  Wildfire,”  he 
began  ;  “  happened  the  day  before  yesterday.” 

“  What !  broke  his  knees  ?  ”  said  the  Squire,  after  taking 
a  draught  of  ale.  “  I  thought  you  knew  how  to  ride  better 
than  that,  sir.  I  never  threw  a  horse  down  in  my  life.  If  I 
had,  I  might  ha’  whistled  for  another,  for  my  father  was  n’t 
quite  so  ready  to  unstring  as  some  other  fathers  I  know  of. 
But  they  must  turn  over  a  new  leaf  —  the^  must.  What  with 
mortgages  and  arrears,  I ’m  as  short  o’  cash  as  a  roadside 
pauper.  And  that  fool  Kimble  says  the  newspaper ’s  talking 
about  peace.  Why,  the  country  would  n’t  have  a  leg  to  stand 
on.  Prices  ’ud  run  down  like  a  jack,  and  I  should  never  get 
my  arrears,  not  if  I  sold  all  the  fellows  up.  And  there ’s  that 
damned  Fowler,  I  won’t  put  up  with  him  any  longer  ;  I ’ve  told 
Winthrop  to  go  to  Cox  this  very  day.  The  lying  scoundrel 
told  me  he ’d  be  sure  to  pay  me  a  hundred  last  month.  He 
takes  advantage  because  he ’s  on  that  outlying  farm,  and  thinks 
I  shall  forget  him.” 

The  Squire  had  delivered  this  speech  in  a  coughing  and 
interrupted  manner,  but  with  no  pause  long  enough  for  God¬ 
frey  to  make  it  a  pretext  for  taking  up  the  word  again.  He 
felt  that  his  father  meant  to  ward  off  any  request  for  money 
on  the  ground  of  the  misfortune  with  Wildfire,  and  that  the 
emphasis  he  had  thus  been  led  to  lay  on  his  shortness  of  cash 
and  his  arrears  was  likely  to  produce  an  attitude  of  mind  the 
utmost  unfavorable  for  his  own  disclosure.  But  he  must  go 
on,  now  he  had  begun. 

“  It ’s  worse  than  breaking  the  horse’s  knees  —  he ’s  been 
staked  and  killed,”  he  said,  as  soon  as  his  father  was  silent, 
and  had  begun  to  cut  his  meat.  “  But  I  was  n’t  thinking  of 
asking  you  to  buy  me  another  horse ;  I  was  only  thinking  I ’d 
lost  the  means  of  paying  you  with  the  price  of  Wildfire,  as 
I ’d  meant  to  do.  Dunsey  took  him  to  the  liunt  to  sell  him 
tor  me  the  other  day,  and  after  he ’d  made  a  bargain  for  a 


SILAS  MARNER. 


285 


hundred  and  twenty  with  Bryce,  he  went  after  the  hounds, 
and  took  some  fool’s  leap  or  other -that  did  for  the  horse  at 
once.  If  it  had  n’t  been  for  that,  I  should  have  paid  you  a 
hundred  pounds  this  morning.” 

The  Squire  had  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork,  and  was  star¬ 
ing  at  his  son  in  amazement,  not  being  sufficiently  quick  of 
brain  to  form  a  probable  guess  as  to  what  could  have  caused 
so  strange  an  inversion  of  the  paternal  and  filial  relations  as 
this  proposition  of  his  son  to  pay  him  a  hundred  pounds. 

“ The  truth  is,  sir  —  I’m  very  sorry  —  I  was  quite  to 
blame,”  said  Godfrey.  “  Fowler  did  pay  that  hundred  pounds. 
He  paid  it  to  me,  when  I  was  over  there  one  day  last  month. 
And  Hunsey  bothered  me  for  the  money,  and  I  let  him  have  it, 
because  I  hoped  I  should  be  able  to  pay  it  you  before  this.” 

The  Squire  was  purple  with  anger  before  his  son  had  done 
speaking,  and  found  utterance  difficult.  “You  let  Dunsey 
have  it,  sir  ?  And  how  long  have  you  been  so  thick  with 
Dunsey  that  you  must  collogue  with  him  to  embezzle  my 
money  ?  Are  you  turning  out  a  scamp  ?  I  tell  you  I  won’t 
have  it.  I  ’ll  turn  the  whole  pack  of  you  out  of  the  house 
together,  and  marry  again.  I ’d  have  you  to  remember,  sir, 
my  property ’s  got  no  entail  on  it ;  — •  since  my  grandfather’s 
time  the  Casses  can  do  as  they  like  with  their  land.  Remem¬ 
ber  that,  sir.  Let  Dunsey  have  the  money !  Why  should 
you  let  Dunsey  have  the  money  ?  There ’s  some  lie  at  the 
bottom  of  it.” 

“  There ’s  no  lie,  sir,”  said  Godfrey.  “  I  would  n’t  have 
spent  the  money  myself,  but  Dunsey  bothered  me,  and  I  was 
a  fool,  and  let  him  have  it.  But  I  meant  to  pay  it,  whether 
he  did  or  not.  That ’s  the  whole  story.  I  never  meant  to  em¬ 
bezzle  money,  and  I ’m  not  the  man  to  do  it.  You  never  knew 
me  do  a  dishonest  trick,  sir.” 

“  Where ’s  Dunsey,  then  ?  What  do  you  stand  talking  there 
for  ?  Go  and  fetch  Dunsey,  as  I  tell  you,  and  let  him  give 
account  of  what  he  wanted  the  money  for,  and  what  he ’s  done 
with  it.  He  shall  repent  it.  I  ’ll  turn  him  out.  I  said  I 
would,  and  I  ’ll  do  it.  He  sha’n’t  brave  me.  Go  and  fetch 
him.” 


286 


SILAS  MARNER. 


Dunsey  is  n’t  come  back,  sir.” 

“  What !  did  he  break  his  own  neck,  then  ?  ”  said  the  Squire, 
with  some  disgust  at  the  idea  that,  in  that  case,  he  could  not 
fulfil  his  threat. 

‘‘No,  he  wasn’t  hurt,  I  believe,  for  the  horse  was  found 
dead,  and  Dunsey  must  have  walked  off.  I  dare  say  we  shall 
see  him  again  by-and-by.  I  don’t  know  where  he  is.” 

“  And  what  must  you  be  letting  him  have  my  money  for  ? 
Answer  me  that,”  said  the  Squire,  attacking  Godfrey  again, 
since  Dunsey  was  not  within  reach. 

Well,  sir,  I  don’t  know,”  said  Godfrey,  hesitatingly.  That 
was  a  feeble  evasion,  but  Godfrey  was  not  fond  of  lying,  and, 
not  being  sufficiently  aware  that  no  sort  of  duplicity  can  long 
fiourish  without  the  help  of  vocal  falsehoods,  he  was  quite  un¬ 
prepared  with  invented  motives. 

“You  don’t  know  ?  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  sir.  You ’ve  been 
up  to  some  trick,  and  you ’ve  been  bribing  him  not  to  tell,” 
said  the  Squire,  with  a  sudden  acuteness  which  startled  God¬ 
frey,  who  felt  his  heart  beat  violently  at  the  nearness  of  his 
father’s  guess.  The  sudden  alarm  pushed  him  on  to  take  the 
next  step  —  a  very  slight  impulse  suffices  for  that  on  a  down¬ 
ward  road. 

“  Why,  sir,”  he  said,  trying  to  speak  with  careless  ease,  “  it 
was  a  little  affair  between  me  and  Dunsey ;  it ’s  no  matter  to 
anybody  else.  It’s  hardly  worth  while  to  pry  into  young 
men’s  fooleries  ;  it  would  n’t  have  made  any  difference  to  you, 
sir,  if  I ’d  not  had  the  bad  luck  to  lose  Wildfire.  I  should 
have  paid  you  the  money.” 

“Fooleries!  Pshaw!  it’s  time  you’d  done  with  fooleries. 
And  I ’d  have  you  know,  sir,  you  must  ha’  done  with  ’em,” 
said  the  Squire,  frowning  and  casting  an  angry  glance  at  his 
son.  “Your  goings-on  are  not  what  I  shall  find  money  for 
any  longer.  There ’s  my  grandfather  had  his  stables  full  o’ 
horses,  and  kept  a  good  house,  too,  and  in  worse  times,  by 
what  I  can  make  out;  and  so  might  I,  if  I  hadn’t  four  good- 
for-nothing  fellows  to  hang  on  me  like  horse-leeches.  I ’ve 
been  too  good  a  father  to  you  all  —  that ’s  what  it  is.  But  I 
shall  pull  up,  sir.” 


SILAS  MANNER. 


^281 


Godfrey  was  silent.  He  was  not  likely  to  be  very  penetrat¬ 
ing  in  his  judgments,  but  lie  had  always  had  a  sense  that  his 
father’s  indulgence  had  not  been  kindness,  and  had  had  a 
vague  longing  for  some  discipline  that  would  have  checked  his 
own  errant  weakness  and  helped  his  better  will.  The  Squire 
ate  his  bread  and  meat  hastily,  took  a  deep  draught  of  ale,  then 
turned  his  chair  from  the  table,  and  began  to  speak  again. 

“  It  ’ll  be  all  the  worse  for  you,  you  know  —  you ’d  need  try 
and  help  me  keep  things  together.” 

Well,  sir,  I ’ve  often  offered  to  take  the  management  of 
things,  but  you  know  you ’ve  taken  it  ill  always,  and  seemed 
to  think  I  wanted  to  push  you  out  of  your  place.” 

“I  know  nothing  o’  your  offering  or  o’  my  taking  it  ill,”  said 
the  Squire,  whose  memory  consisted  in  certain  strong  impres¬ 
sions  unmodified  by  detail ;  “  but  I  know  one  while  you  seemed 
to  be  thinking  o’  marrying,  and  I  did  n’t  offer  to  put  any  ob¬ 
stacles  in  your  way,  as  some  fathers  would.  I ’d  as  lieve  you 
married  Lammeter’s  daughter  as  anybody.  I  suppose,  if  I ’d 
said  you  nay,  you ’d  ha’  kept  on  with  it ;  but,  for  want  o’  con¬ 
tradiction,  you  Ve  changed  your  mind.  You  ’re  a  shilly-shally 
fellow:  you  take  after  your  poor  mother.  She  never  had  a 
will  of  her  own ;  a  woman  has  no  call  for  one,  if  she ’s  got  a 
proper  man  for  her  husband.  But  your  wife  had  need  have 
one,  for  you  hardly  know  your  own  mind  enough  to  make  both 
your  legs  walk  one  way.  The  lass  has  n’t  said  downright  she 
won’t  have  you,  has  she  ?  ” 

“No,”  said  Godfrey,  feeling  very  hot  and  uncomfortable; 
“  but  I  don’t  think  she  will.” 

“  Think !  why  have  n’t  you  the  courage  to  ask  her  ?  Do 
you  stick  to  it,  you  want  to  have  her  —  that ’s  the  thing  ?  ” 

“  There ’s  no  other  woman  I  want  to  marry,”  said  Godfrey, 
evasively. 

“Well,  then,  let  me  make  the  offer  for  you,  that’s  all,  if  you 
have  n’t  the  pluck  to  do  it  yourself.  Lammeter  is  n’t  likely 
to  be  loath  for  his  daughter  to  marry  into  my  family,  I  should 
think.  And  as  for  the  pretty  lass,  she  wouldn’t  have  her 
oousin  —  and  there ’s  nobody  else,  as  I  see,  could  ha’  stood  in 
your  way.” 


288 


SILAS  MARNER. 


I ’d  rather  let  it  be,  please  sir,  at  present,”  said  Godfrey, 
in  alarm.  “  I  think  she ’s  a  little  offended  with  me  just  now, 
and  I  should  like  to  speak  for  myself.  A  man  must  manage 
these  things  for  himself.” 

“  Well,  speak,  then,  and  manage  it,  and  see  if  you  can’t  turn 
over  a  new  leaf.  That ’s  what  a  man  must  do  when  he  thinks 
o’  marrying,” 

“  I  don’t  see  how  I  can  think  of  it  at  present,  sir.  You 
would  n’t  like  to  settle  me  on  one  of  the  farms,  I  suppose,  and 
I  don’t  think  she ’d  come  to  live  in  this  house  with  all  my 
brothers.  It ’s  a  different  sort  of  life  to  what  she ’s  been 
used  to.” 

“  Not  come  to  live  in  this  house  ?  Don’t  tell  me.  You  ask 
her,  that ’s  all,”  said  the  Squire,  with  a  short,  scornful  laugh. 

“  I ’d  rather  let  the  thing  be,  at  present,  sir,”  said  Godfrey. 

I  hope  you  won’t  try  to  hurry  it  on  by  saying  anything.” 

“  I  shall  do  what  I  choose,”  said  the  Squire,  “  and  I  shall  let 
you  know  I ’m  master ;  else  you  may  turn  out,  and  find  an 
estate  to  drop  into  somewhere  else.  Go  out  and  tell  Winthrop 
not  to  go  to  Cox’s,  but  wait  for  me.  And  tell  ’em  to  get  my 
horse  saddled.  And  stop  :  look  out  and  get  that  hack  o’  Dun- 
sej’s  sold,  and  hand  me  the  money,  will  you  ?  He  ’ll  keep  no 
more  hacks  at  my  expense.  And  if  you  know  where  he’s 
sneaking  —  I  dare  say  you  do  —  you  may  tell  him  to  spare 
himself  the  journey  o’  coming  back  home.  Let  him  turn  ostler, 
and  keep  himself.  He  sha’n’t  hang  on  me  any  more.” 

“  I  don’t  know  where  he  is  ;  and  if  I  did,  it  is  n’t  my  place 
to  tell  him  to  keep  away,”  said  Godfrey,  moving  towards  the 
door. 

“Confound  it,  sir,  don’t  stay  arguing,  but  go  and  order  my 
horse,”  said  the  Squire,  taking  up  a  pipe. 

Godfrey  left  the  room,  hardly  knowing  whether  he  were 
more  relieved  by  the  sense  that  the  interview  was  ended  with¬ 
out  having  made  any  change  in  his  position,  or  more  uneasy 
that  he  had  entangled  himself  still  further  in  j)revarication 
and  deceit.  What  had  passed  about  his  proposing  to  Nancy 
had  raised  a  new  alarm,  lest  by  some  after-dinner  words  of  his 
father’s  to  Mr.  Lammeter  he  should  be  thrown  into  the  em- 


SILAS  MARKER. 


289 


barrassment  of  being  obliged  absolutely  to  decline  her  when 
she  seemed  to  be  within  his  reach.  He  fled  to  his  usual  ref¬ 
uge,  that  of  hoping  for  some  unforeseen  turn  of  fortune,  some 
favorable  chance  which  would  save  him  from  unpleasant  con¬ 
sequences  —  perhaps  even  justify  his  insincerity  by  manifest¬ 
ing  its  prudence. 

In  this  point  of  trusting  to  some  throw  of  fortune’s  dice, 
Godfrey  can  hardly  be  called  old-fashioned.  Favorable  Chance 
is  the  god  of  all  men  who  follow  their  own  devices  instead  of 
obeying  a  law  they  believe  in.  Let  even  a  polished  man  of 
these  days  get  into  a  position  he  is  ashamed  to  avow,  and  his 
mind  will  be  bent  on  all  the  possible  issues  that  may  deliver 
him  from  the  calculable  results  of  that  position.  Let  him  live 
outside  his  income,  or  shirk  the  resolute  honest  work  that 
brings  wages,  and  he  will  presently  find  himself  dreaming  of 
a  possible  benefactor,  a  possible  simpleton  who  may  be  cajoled 
into  using  his  interest,  a  possible  state  of  mind  in  some  pos¬ 
sible  person  not  yet  forthcoming.  Let  him  neglect  the  re¬ 
sponsibilities  of  his  office,  and  he  will  inevitably  anchor  him¬ 
self  on  the  chance,  that  the  thing  left  undone  may  turn  out 
not  to  be  of  the  supposed  importance.  Let  him  betray  his 
friend’s  confidence,  and  he  will  adore  that  same  cunning  com¬ 
plexity  called  Chance,  which  gives  him  the  hope  that  his 
friend  will  never  know.  Let  him  forsake  a  decent  craft  that 
he  may  pursue  the  gentilities  of  a  profession  to  which  nature 
never  called  him,  and  his  religion  will  infallibly  be  the  wor¬ 
ship  of  blessed  Chance,  which  he  will  believe  in  as  the  mighty 
creator  of  success.  The  evil  principle  deprecated  in  that  reli 
gion,  is  the  orderly  sequence  by  which  the  seed  brings  forth 
a  crop  after  its  kind. 


rou  ru 


290 


SILAS  MARKER. 


CHAPTER  X. 

Justice  MjLlam  was  naturally  regarded  in  Tarley  and  Rav- 
eloe  as  &  man  of  capacious  mind,  seeing  that  he  could  draw 
much  wider  conclusions  without  evidence  than  could  be  ex 
pected  of  his  neighbors  who  were  not  on  the  Commission  of 
the  Peace.  Such  a  man  was  not  likely  to  neglect  the  clew  of 
the  tinder-box,  and  an  inquiry  was  set  on  foot  concerning  a 
pedler,  name  unknown,  with  curly  black  hair  and  a  foreign  com¬ 
plexion,  carrying  a  box  of  cutlery  and  jewelry,  and  wearing 
large  rings  in  his  ears.  But  either  because  inquiry  was  too 
slow-footed  to  overtake  him,  or  because  the  description  applied 
to  so  many  pedlers  that  inquiry  did  not  know  how  to  choose 
among  them,  weeks  passed  away,  and  there  was  no  other 
result  concerning  the  robbery  than  a  gradual  cessation  of  the 
excitement  it  had  caused  in  Raveloe.  Dunstan  Cass’s  absence 
was  hardly  a  subject  of  remark :  he  had  once  before  had  a 
quarrel  with  his  father,  and  had  gone  off,  nobody  knew 
whither,  to  return  at  the  end  of  six  weeks,  take  up  his  old 
quarters  unforbidden  and  swagger  as  usual.  His  own  family, 
who  equally  expected  this  issue,  with  the  sole  difference  that 
the  Squire  was  determined  this  time  to  forbid  him  the  old 
quarters,  never  mentioned  his  absence ;  and  when  his  uncle 
Kimble  or  Mr.  Osgood  noticed  it,  the  story  of  his  having  killed 
Wildfire  and  committed  some  offence  against  his  father  was 
enough  to  prevent  surprise.  To  connect  the  fact  of  Dunsey’s 
disappearance  with  that  of  the  robbery  occurring  on  the  same 
day,  lay  quite  away  from  the  track  of  every  one’s  thought  — 
even  Godfrey’s,  who  had  better  reason  than  any  one  else  to 
know  what  his  brother  was  capable  of.  He  remembered  no 
mention  of  the  weaver  between  them  since  the  time,  twelve 
years  ago,  when  it  was  their  boyish  sport  to  deride  him  ;  and, 
besides,  his  imagination  constantly  created  an  alibi  for  Dun¬ 
stan:  he  saw  him  continually  in  some  congenial  haunt,  to 


SILAS  MAENER. 


291 


which  he  had  walked  off  on  leaving  Wildfire  —  saw  him  spong¬ 
ing  on  chance  acquaintances,  and  meditating  a  return  home  to 
the  old  amusement  of  tormenting  his  elder  brother.  Even  if 
any  brain  in  Raveloe  had  put  the  said  two  facts  together,  I 
doubt  whether  a  combination  so  injurious  to  the  prescriptive 
respectability  of  a  family  with  a  mural  monument  and  vener¬ 
able  tankards,  would  not  have  been  suppressed  as  of  unsound 
tendency.  But  Christmas  puddings,  brawn,  and  abundance  of 
spirituous  liquors,  throwing  the  mental  originality  into  the 
channel  of  nightmare,  are  great  preservatives  against  a  dan¬ 
gerous  spontaneity  of  waking  thought. 

When  the  robbery  was  talked  of  at  the  Rainbow  and  else¬ 
where,  in  good  company,  the  balance  continued  to  waver  be¬ 
tween  the  rational  explanation  founded  on  the  tinder-box,  and 
the  theory  of  an  impenetrable  mystery  that  mocked  investiga¬ 
tion.  The  advocates  of  the  tinder-bo x-and-pedler  view  con¬ 
sidered  the  other  side  a  muddle-headed  and  credulous  set,  who, 
because  they  themselves  were  wall-eyed,  supposed  everybody 
else  to  have  the  same  blank  outlook ;  and  the  adherents  of  the 
inexplicable  more  than  hinted  that  their  antagonists  were  ani¬ 
mals  inclined  to  crow  before  they  had  found  any  corn  —  mere 
ski  mining-dishes  in  point  of  depth  —  whose  clear-sightedness 
consisted  in  supposing  there  was  nothing  behind  a  barn-door 
because  they  could  n’t  see  through  it ;  so  that,  though  their 
controversy  did  not  serve  to  elicit  the  fact  concerning  the  rob¬ 
bery,  it  elicited  some  true  opinions  of  collateral  importance. 

But  while  poor  Silas’s  loss  served  thus  to  brush  the  slow 
current  of  Raveloe  conversation,  Silas  himself  was  feeling  the 
withering  desolation  of  that  bereavement  about  which  his 
neighbors  were  arguing  at  their  ease.  To  any  one  who  had 
observed  him  before  he  lost  his  gold,  it  might  have  seemed 
that  so  withered  and  shrunken  a  life  as  his  could  hardly  be 
susceptible  of  a  bruise,  could  hardly  endure  any  subtraction 
but  such  as  would  put  an  end  to  it  altogether.  But  in  reality 
it  had  been  an  eager  life,  filled  with  immediate  purpose  which 
fenced  him  in  from  the  wide,  cheerless  unknown.  It  had  been 
a  clinging  life  ;  and  though  the  object  round  which  its  fibres 
iiad  clung  was  a  dead  disrupted  thing,  it  satisfied  the  need  fo» 


292 


SILAS  MARNER. 


clinging.  But  now  the  fence  was  broken  down  —  the  support 
was  snatched  away.  Marner’s  thoughts  could  no  longer  move 
in  their  old  round,  and  were  baffled  by  a  blank  like  that  which 
meets  a  plodding  ant  when  the  earth  has  broken  away  on  its 
homeward  path.  The  loom  was  there,  and  the  weaving,  and 
the  growing  pattern  in  the  cloth  ;  but  the  bright  treasure  in 
the  hole  under  his  feet  was  gone ;  the  prospect  of  handling 
and  counting  it  was  gone  :  the  evening  had  no  phantasm  of 
delight  to  still  the  poor  soul’s  craving.  The  thought  of  the 
money  he  would  get  by  his  actual  work  could  bring  no  joy,  for 
its  meagre  image  was  only  a  fresh  reminder  of  his  loss  ;  and 
hope  was  too  heavily  crushed  by  the  sudden  blow,  for  his 
imagination  to  dwell  on  the  growth  of  a  new  hoard  from  that 
small  beginning. 

He  filled  up  the  blank  with  grief.  'As  he  sat  weaving,  he 
every  now  and  then  moaned  low,  like  one  in  pain :  it  was  the 
sign  that  his  thoughts  had  come  round  again  to  the  sudden 
chasm  —  to  the  empty  evening  time.  And  all  the  evening,  as 
he  sat  in  his  loneliness  by  his  dull  fire,  he  leaned  his  elbows 
on  his  knees,  and  clasped  his  head  with  his  hands,  and  moaned 
very  low  —  not  as  one  who  seeks  to  be  heard. 

And  yet  he  was  not  utterly  forsaken  in  his  trouble.  The 
repulsion  Marner  had  always  created  in  his  neighbors  was 
partly  dissipated  by  the  new  light  in  which  .this  misfortune 
had  shown  him.  Instead  of  a  man  who  had  more  cunning 
than  honest  folks  could  come  by,  and,  what  was  worse,  had 
not  the  inclination  to  use  that  cunning  in  a  neighborly  way,  it 
was  now  apparent  that  Silas  had  not  cunning  enough  to  keep 
his  own.  He  was  generally  spoken  of  as  a  ‘‘poor  mushed 
creatur ;  ”  and  that  avoidance  of  his  neighbors,  which  had 
before  been  referred  to  his  ill-will  and  to  a  probable  addiction 
to  worse  company,  was  now  considered  mere  craziness. 

This  change  to  a  kindlier  feeling  was  shown  in  various  ways. 
The  odor  of  Christmas  cooking  being  on  the  wind,  it  was  the 
season  when  superfluous  pork  and  black  puddings  are  sugges¬ 
tive  of  charity  in  well-to-do  families ;  and  Silas’s  misfortune 
had  brought  him  uppermost  in  the  memory  of  housekeepers 
like  Mrs.  Osgood.  Mr.  Crackenthorp,  too,  while  he  admon- 


SILAz  MARNER. 


293 


ished  Silas  that  his  money  had  probably  been  taken  from  him 
because  he  thought  too  much  of  it  and  never  came  to  churcli, 
enforced  the  doctrine  by  a  present  of  pigs’  pettitoes,  well  cal¬ 
culated  to  dissipate  unfounded  prejudices  against  the  clerical 
character.  Neighbors  who  had  nothing  but  verbal  consolation 
to  give  showed  a  disposition  not  only  to  greet  Silas  and  discuss 
his  misfortune  at  some  length  when  they  encountered  him 
in  the  village,  but  also  to  take  the  trouble  of  calling  at  his 
cottage  and  getting  him  to  repeat  all  the  details  on  the  very 
spot;  and  then  they  would  try  to  cheer  him  by  saying,  ‘^Well, 
Master  M^rner,  you’re  no  worse  off  nor  other  poor  folks,  after 
all ;  and  if  you  was  to  be  crippled,  the  parish  ’ud  give  you  a 
’lowance.” 

I  suppose  one  reason  why  we  are  seldom  able  to  comfort 
our  neighbors  with  our  words  is  that  our  goodwill  gets  adul¬ 
terated,  in  spite  of  ourselves,  before  it  can  pass  our  lips.  We 
can  send  black  puddings  and  pettitoes  without  giving  them  a 
flavor  of  our  own  egoism ;  but  language  is  a  stream  that  is 
almost  sure  to  smack  of  a  mingled  soil.  There  was  a  fair 
proportion  of  kindness  in  Raveloe ;  but  it  was  often  of  a  beery 
and  bungling  sort,  and  took  the  shape  least  allied  to  the  com¬ 
plimentary  and  hypocritical. 

Mr.  Macey,  for  example,  coming  one  evening  expressly  to 
let  Silas  know  that  recent  events  had  given  him  the  advantage 
of  standing  more  favorably  in  the  opinion  of  a  man  whose 
judgment  was  not  formed  lightly,  opened  the  conversation  by 
saying,  as  soon  as  he  had  seated  himself  and  adjusted  his 
thumbs  — 

“Come,  Master  Marner,  why,  you’ve  no  call  to  sit  a-moaning. 
You  ’re  a  deal  better  off  to  ha’  lost  your  money,  nor  to  ha’  kep 
it  by  foul  means.  I  used  to  think,  when  you  first  come  into 
these  parts,  as  you  were  no  better  nor  you  should  be ;  you 
were  younger  a  deal  than  what  you  are  now  ;  but  you  were 
allays  a  staring,  white-faced  creatur,  partly  like  a  bald-faced 
calf,  as  I  may  say.  But  there ’s  no  knowing :  it  is  n’t  every 
queer-looksed  thing  as  Old  Harry’s  had  the  making  of  —  I 
mean,  speaking  o’  toads  and  such  ;  for  they  ’re  often  harmless, 
and  useful  against  varmin.  And  it ’s  pretty  much  the  same 


294 


SILAS  MARNER. 


wi’  you,  as  fur  as  I  can  see.  Though  as  to  the  yarbs  and  stuff 
to  cure  the  breathing,  if  you  brought  that  sort  o’  knowledge 
from  distant  parts,  you  might  ha’  been  a  bit  freer  of  it.  And 
if  the  knowledge  was  n’t  well  come  by,  why,  you  might  ha’ 
made  up  for  it  by  coming  to  church  reg’lar ;  for  as  for  the 
children  as  the  Wise  Woman  charmed,  I  ’ve  been  at  the 
christening  of  ’em  again  and  again,  and  they  took  the  water 
just  as  well.  And  that ’s  reasonable ;  for  if  Old  Harry ’s  a 
mind  to  do  a  bit  o’  kindness  for  a  holiday,  like,  who ’s  got 
anything  against  it  ?  That ’s  my  thinking ;  and  I ’ve  been 
clerk  o’  this  parish  forty  year,  and  I  know,  when  the  parson 
and  me  does  the  cussing  of  a  Ash  Wednesday,  there’s  no  cuss¬ 
ing  o’  folks  as  have  a  mind  to  be  cured  without  a  doctor,  let 
Kimble  say  what  he  will.  And  so.  Master  Marner,  as  I  was 
saying  —  for  there ’s  windings  i’  things  as  they  may  carry  you 
to  the  fur  end  o’  the  prayer-book  afore  you  get  back  to  ’em  — 
my  advice  is,  as  you  keep  up  your  sperrits ;  for  as  for  thinking 
you  ’re  a  deep  un,  and  ha’  got  more  inside  you  nor  ’ull  beai 
daylight,  I ’m  not  o’  that  opinion  at  all,  and  so  I  tell  the  neigh¬ 
bors.  For,  says  I,  you  talk  o’  Master  Marner  making  out  a  tale 
—  why,  it ’s  nonsense,  that  is  :  it  ’ud  take  a  ’cute  man  to  make 
a  tale  like  that ;  and,  says  I,  he  looked  as  scared  as  a  rabbit.” 

During  this  discursive  address  Silas  had  continued  motion¬ 
less  in  his  previous  attitude,  leaning  his  elbows  on  his  knees, 
and  pressing  his  hands  against  his  head.  Mr.  Macey,  not 
doubting  that  he  had  been  listened  to,  paused,  in  the  expecta¬ 
tion  of  some  appreciatory  reply,  but  Marner  remained  silent. 
He  had  a  sense  that  the  old  man  meant  to  be  good-natured 
and  neighborly ;  but  the  kindness  fell  on  him  as  sunshine  falls 
on  the  wretched  — he  had  no  heart  to  taste  it,  and  felt  that  it 
was  very  far  off  him. 

“Come,  Master  Marner,  have  you  got  nothing  to  say  to 
that  ?  ”  said  Mr.  Macey  at  last,  with  a  slight  accent  of 
impatience. 

“  Oh,”  said  Marner,  slowly,  shaking  his  head  between  his 
hands,  “  I  thank  you  —  thank  you  —  kindly.” 

“  Ay,  ay,  to  be  sure :  I  thought  you  would/’  said  Mr.  Macey ; 
“  and  my  advice  is  —  have  you  got  a  Sunday  suit  ?  ” 


SILAS  MARNER. 


295 


"  No/’  said  Marner. 

1  doubted  it  was  so,”  said  Mr.  Macey.  Now,  let  me 
advise  you  to  get  a  Sunday  suit :  there ’s  Tookey,  he ’s  a  poor 
creatur,  but  he ’s  got  my  tailoring  business,  and  some  o’  my 
money  in  it,  and  he  shall  make  a  suit  at  a  low  price,  and 
giye  you  trust,  and  then  you  can  come  to  church,  and  be  a 
bit  neighborly.  Why,  you  ’ve  never  beared  me  say  ‘  Amen  ’ 
since  you  come  into  these  parts,  and  I  recommend  you  to  lose 
no  time,  for  it  ’ll  be  poor  work  when  Tookey  has  it  all  to  him¬ 
self,  for  I  may  n’t  be  equil  to  stand  i’  the  desk  at  all,  come 
another  winter.”  Here  Mr.  Macey  paused,  perhaps  expecting 
some  sign  of  emotion  in  his  hearer  ;  but  not  observing  any, 
he  went  on.  “And  as  for  the  money  for  the  suit  o’  clothes, 
why,  you  get  a  matter  of  a  pound  a-week  at  your  weaving. 
Master  Marner,  and  you  ’re  a  young  man,  eh,  for  all  you  look 
so  mushed.  Why,  you  could  n’t  ha’  been  five-and-twenty 
when  you  come  into  these  parts,  eh  ?  ” 

Silas  started  a  little  at  the  change  to  a  questioning  tone, 
and  answered  mildly,  “  I  don’t  know  ;  I  can’t  rightly  say  — 
it’s  a  long  while  since.” 

After  receiving  such  an  answer  as  this,  it  is  not  surprising 
that  Mr.  Macey  observed,  later  on  in  the  evening  at  the  Rain¬ 
bow,  that  Marner’s  head  was  “  all  of  a  muddle,”  and  that  it 
was  to  be  doubted  if  he  ever  knew  when  Sunday  came  round, 
which  showed  him  a  worse  heathen  than  many  a  dog. 

Another  of  Silas’s  comforters,  besides  Mr.  Macey,  came  to 
him  with  a  mind  highly  charged  on  the  same  topic.  This  was 
Mrs.  Winthrop,  the  wheelwright’s  wife.  The  inhabitants  of 
Raveloe  were  not  severely  regular  in  their  church-going,  and 
perhaps  there  was  hardly  a  person  in  the  parish  who  would 
not  have  held  that  to  go  to  church  every  Sunday  in  the  calen¬ 
dar  would  have  shown  a  greedy  desire  to  stand  well  with 
Heaven,  and  get  an  undue  advantage  over  their  neighbors  — 
a  wish  to  be  better  than  the  common  run,”  that  would  have 
implied  a  reflection  on  those  who  had  had  godfathers  and  god¬ 
mothers  as  well  as  themselves,  and  had  an  equal  right  to  the 
burying-service.  At  the  same  time,  it  was  understood  to  bo 
requisite  for  all  who  were  not  household  servants,  or  young 


296 


SILAS  MARNER. 


men,  to  take  the  sacrament  at  one  of  the  great  festivals : 
Squire  Cass  himself  took  it  on  Christmas-day ;  while  those 
who  were  held  to  be  “  good  livers  ”  went  to  church  with 
greater,  though  still  with  moderate,  frequency. 

Mrs.  Winthrop  was  one  of  these  :  she  was  in  all  respects  a 
woman  of  scrupulous  conscience,  so  eager  for  duties  that  life 
seemed  to  offer  them  too  scantily  unless  she  rose  at  half-past 
four,  though  this  threw  a  scarcity  of  work  over  the  more 
advanced  hours  of  the  morning,  which  it  was  a  constant  prob¬ 
lem  with  her  to  remove.  Yet  she  had  not  the  vixenish  temper 
which  is  sometimes  supposed  to  be  a  necessary  condition  of 
such  habits  :  she  was  a  very  mild,  patient  woman,  whose 
nature  it  was  to  seek  out  all  the  sadder  and  more  serious 
elements  of  life,  and  pasture  her  mind  upon  them.  She  was 
the  person  always  first  thought  of  in  Eaveloe  when  there 
was  illness  or  death  in  a  family,  when  leeches  were  to  be 
applied,  or  there  was  a  sudden  disappointment  in  a  monthly 
nurse.  She  was  a  “  comfortable  woman  ”  —  good-looking, 
fresh-complexioned,  having  her  lips  always  slightly  screwed, 
as  if  she  felt  herself  in  a  sick-room  with  the  doctor  or  the 
clergyman  present.  But  she  was  never  whimpering ;  no  one 
had  seen  her  shed  tears ;  she  was  simply  grave  and  inclined 
to  shake  her  head  and  sigh,  almost  imperceptibly,  like  a 
funereal  mourner  who  is  not  a  relation.  It  seemed  surprising 
that  Ben  Winthrop,  who  loved  his  quart-pot  and  his  joke,  got 
along  so  well  with  Dolly ;  but  she  took  her  husband’s  jokes 
and  joviality  as  patiently  as  everything  else,  considering  that 

men  would  be  so,”  and  viewing  the  stronger  sex  in  the  light 
of  animals  whom  it  had  pleased  Heaven  to  make  naturally 
troublesome,  like  bulls  and  turkey-cocks. 

This  good  wholesome  woman  could  hardly  fail  to  have  her 
mind  drawn  strongly  towards  Silas  Marner,  now  that  he  ap¬ 
peared  in  the  light  of  a  sufferer ;  and  one  Sunday  afternoon 
she  took  her  little  boy  Aaron  with  her,  and  went  to  call  on 
Silas,  carrying  in  her  hand  some  small  lard-cakes,  flat  paste¬ 
like  articles  much  esteemed  in  Eaveloe.  Aaron,  an  apple¬ 
cheeked  youngster  of  seven,  with  a  clean  starched  frill  which 
looked  like  a  plate  for  the  apples,  needed  all  his  adventurous 


SILAS  MAENER. 


297 


curiosity  to  embolden  him  against  the  possibility  that  the 
big-eyed  weaver  might  do  him  some  bodily  injury ;  and  his 
dubiety  was  much  increased  when,  on  arriving  at  the  Stone- 
pits,  they  heard  the  mysterious  sound  of  the  loom. 

“  Ah,  it  is  as  I  thought,”  said  Mrs.  Winthrop,  sadly. 

They  had  to  knock  loudly  before  Silas  heard  them;  but 
when  he  did  come  to  the  door  he  showed  no  impatience,  as  he 
would  once  have  done,  at  a  visit  that  had  been  unasked  for 
and  unexpected.  Formerly,  his  heart  had  been  as  a  locked 
casket  with  its  treasure  inside  ;  but  now  the  casket  was  empty, 
and  the  lock  was  broken.  Left  groping  in  darkness,  with  his 
prop  utterly  gone,  Silas  had  inevitably  a  sense,  though  a  dull 
and  half-despairing  one,  that  if  any  help  came  to  him  it  must 
come  from  without ;  and  there  was  a  slight  stirring  of  expec¬ 
tation  at  the  sight  of  his  fellow-men,  a  faint  consciousness  of 
dependence  on  their  good-will.  He  opened  the  door  wide  to 
admit  Dolly,  but  without  otherwise  returning  her  greeting 
than  by  moving  the  arm-chair  a  few  inches  as  a  sign  that  she 
was  to  sit  down  in  it.  Dolly,  as  soon  as  she  was  seated,  re¬ 
moved  the  white  cloth  that  covered  her  lard-cakes,  and  said  in 
her  gravest  way  — 

“  I ’d  a  baking  yisterday.  Master  Marner,  and  the  lard-cakes 
turned  out  better  nor  common,  and  I ’d  ha’  asked  you  to  accept 
some,  if  you ’d  thought  well.  I  don’t  eat  such  things  myself, 
for  a  bit  o’  bread ’s  what  I  like  from  one  year’s  end  to  the 
other ;  but  men’s  stomichs  are  made  so  comical,  they  want  a 
change  —  they  do,  I  know,  God  help  ’em.” 

Dolly  sighed  gently  as  she  held  out  the  cakes  to  Silas,  who 
thanked  her  kindly  and  looked  very  close  at  them,  absently, 
being  accustomed  to  look  so  at  everything  he  took  into  his 
hand  —  eyed  all  the  while  by  the  wondering  bright  orbs  of 
the  small  Aaron,  who  had  made  an  outwork  of  his  mother’s 
chair,  and  was  peeping  round  from  behind  it. 

There ’s  letters  pricked  on  ’em,”  said  Dolly.  “  I  can’t 
read  ’em  myself,  and  there ’s  nobody,  not  Mr.  Macey  himself, 
rightly  knows  what  they  mean  ;  but  they  ’ve  a  good  meaning, 
for  they  ’re  the  same  as  is  on  the  pulpit-cloth  at  church. 
What  are  they,  Aaron,  my  dear  ?  ” 


298 


SILAS  MARKER. 


Aaron  retreated  completely  behind  his  outwork. 

“'Oh  go,  that’s  naughty,”  said  his  mother,  mildly.  “Well, 
whativer  the  letters  are,'  they ’ve  a  good  meaning  ;  and  it ’s  a 
stamp  as  has  been  in  our  house,  Ben  says,  ever  since  he  was 
a  little  un,  and  his  mother  used  to  put  it  on  the  cakes,  and 
I ’ve  allays  put  it  on  too ;  for  if  there ’s  any  good,  we ’ve  need 
of  it  i’  this  world.” 

“  It ’s  I.  H.  S.,”  said  Silas,  at  which  proof  of  learning  Aaron 
peeped  round  the  chair  again. 

“  Well,  to  be  sure,  you  can  read  ’em  off,”  said  Dolly. 
“  Ben ’s  read  ’em  to  me  many  and  many  a  time,  but  they  slip 
omt  o’  my  mind  again  ;  the  more ’s  the  pity,  for  they  ’re  good 
letters,  else  they  would  n’t  be  in  the  church ;  and  so  I  prick 
’em  on  all  the  loaves  and  all  the  cakes,  though  sometimes 
they  won’t  hold,  because  o’  the  rising  —  for,  as  I  said,  if 
there ’s  any  good  to  be  got  we ’ve  need  of  it  i’  this  world  — 
that  we  have ;  and  I  hope  they  ’ll  bring  good  to  you.  Master 
Marner,  for  it ’s  wi’  that  will  I  brought  you  the  cakes ;  and 
you  see  the  letters  have  held  better  nor  common.” 

Silas  was  as  unable  to  interpret  the  letters  as  Dolly,  but 
there  was  no  possibility  of  misunderstanding  the  desire  to 
give  comfort  tnat  made  itself  heard  in  her  quiet  tones.  He 
said,  with  more  feeling  than  before  —  “  Thank  you  —  thank 
you  kindly.”  But  he  laid  down  the  cakes  and  seated  himself 
absently  —  drearily  unconscious  of  any  distinct  benefit  towards 
which  the  cakes  and  the  letters,  or  even  Dolly’s  kindness, 
could  tend  for  him. 

“  Ah,  if  there ’s  good  anywhere,  we ’ve  need  of  it,”  repeated 
Dolly,  who  did  not  lightly  forsake  a  serviceable  phrase.  She 
looked  at  Silas  pityingly  as  she  went  on.  “  But  you  did  n’t 
hear  the  church-bells  this  morning.  Master  Marner  ?  I  doubt 
you  did  n’t  know  it  was  Sunday.  Living  so  lone  here,  you 
lose  your  count,  I  dare  say;  and  then,  when  your  loom  makes 
a  noise,  you  can’t  hear  the  bells,  more  partic’lar  now  the  frost 
kills  the  sound.” 

“Yes,  I  did;  I  heard  ’em,”  said  Silas,  to  whom  Sunday  bells 
were  a  mere  accident  of  the  day,  and  not  part  of  its  sacredness. 
There  had  been  no  bells  in  Lantern  Yard. 


SILAS  MARNER. 


299 


“  Dear  heart !  ”  said  Dolly,  pausing  before  she  spohe  again. 
^‘But  what  a  pity  it  is  you  should  work  of  a  Sunday,  and  not 
clean  yourself  —  if  you  did  nH  go  to  church ;  for  if  you ’d  a 
roasting  bit,  it  might  be  as  you  could  n’t  leave  it,  being  a  lone 
man.  But  there ’s  the  bakehus,  if  you  could  make  up  your 
mind  to  spend  a  twopence  on  the  oven  now  and  then,  —  not 
every  week,  in  course  —  I  should  n’t  like  to  do  that  myself,  — 
you  might  carry  your  bit  o’  dinner  there,  for  it ’s  nothing  but 
right  to  have  a  bit  o’  summat  hot  of  a  Sunday,  and  not  to 
make  it  as  you  can’t  know  your  dinner  from  Saturday.  But 
now,  upo’  Christmas-day,  this  blessed  Christmas  as  is  ever 
coming,  if  you  was  to  take  your  dinner  to  the  bakehus,  and  go 
to  church,  and  see  the  holly  and  the  yew,  and  hear  the  anthim, 
and  then  take  the  sacramen’,  you ’d  be  a  deal  the  better,  and 
you ’d  know  which  end  you  stood  on,  and  you  could  put  your 
trust  i’  Them  as  knows  better  nor  we  do,  seein’  you ’d  ha’  done 
what  it  lies  on  us  all  to  do.” 

Dolly’s  exhortation,  which  was  an  unusually  long  effort  of 
speech  for  her,  was  uttered  in  the  soothing  persuasive  tone 
with  which  she  would  have  tried  to  prevail  on  a  sick  man  to 
take  his  medicine,  or  a  basin  of  gruel  for  which  he  had  no 
appetite.  Silas  had  never  before  been  closely  urged  on  the 
point  of  his  absence  from  church,  which  had  only  been  thought 
of  as  a  part  of  his  general  queerness  ;  and  he  was  too  direct 
and  simple  to  evade  Dolly’s  appeal. 

“  Nay,  nay,”  he  said,  “  I  know  nothing  o’  church.  I ’ve 
never  been  to  church.” 

“  No  !  ”  said  Dolly,  in  a  low  tone  of  wonderment.  Then 
bethinking  herself  of  Silas’s  advent  from  an  unknown  country, 
she  said,  “  Could  it  ha’  been  as  they ’d  no  church  where  you 
was  born  ?  ” 

^‘Oh  yes,”  said  Silas,  meditatively,  sitting  in  his  usual 
posture  of  leaning  on  his  knees,  and  supporting  his  liead. 
“  There  was  churches  —  a  many  —  it  was  a  big  town.  But  1 
knew  nothing  of  ’em  —  I  went  to  chapel.” 

Dolly  was  much  puzzled  at  this  new  Avord,  but  she  was 
rather  afraid  of  inquiring  further,  lest  “chapel”  might  mean 
some  haunt  of  wickedness.  After  a  little  thought,  she  said  — 


300 


SILAS  MARNER. 


“  Well,  Master  Marner,  it ’s  niver  too  late  to  turn  over  a 
new  leaf,  and  if  you ’ve  niver  had  no  church,  there ’s  no  telling 
the  good  it  ’ll  do  you.  For  I  feel  so  set  up  and  comfortable  as 
niver  was,  when  I ’ve  been  and  heard  the  prayers,  and  the 
singing  to  the  praise  and  glory  o’  God,  as  Mr.  Macey  gives 
out  —  and  Mr.  Crackenthorp  saying  good  words,  and  more 
partic’lar  on  Sacramen’  Day ;  and  if  a  bit  o’  trouble  comes,  I 
feel  as  I  can  put  up  wi’  it,  for  I ’ve  looked  for  help  i’  the  right 
quarter,  and  gev  myself  up  to  Them  as  we  must  all  give  our¬ 
selves  up  to  at  the  last ;  and  if  we  ’n  done  our  part,  it  is  n’t 
to  be  believed  as  Them  as .  are  above  us  ’ull  be  worse  nor  we 
are,  and  come  short  o’  Their  ’n.” 

Poor  Dolly’s  exposition  of  her  simple  Eaveloe  theology  fell 
rather  unmeaningly  on  Silas’s  ears,  for  there  was  no  word  in 
it  that  could  rouse  a  memory  of  what  he  had  known  as  reli¬ 
gion,  and  his  comprehension  was  quite  baffled  by  the  plural 
pronoun,  which  was  no  heresy  of  Dolly’s,  but  only  her  way  of 
avoiding  a  presumptuous  familiarity.  He  remained  silent, 
not  feeling  inclined  to  assent  to  the  part  of  Dolly’s  speech 
which  he  fully  understood  —  her  recommendation  that  he 
should  go  to  church.  Indeed,  Silas  was  so  unaccustomed  to 
talk  beyond  the  brief  questions  and  answers  necessary  for  the 
transaction  of  his  simple  business,  that  words  did  not  easily 
come  to  him  without  the  urgency  of  a  distinct  purpose. 

But  now,  little  Aaron,  having  become  used  to  the  weaver’s 
awful  presence,  had  advanced  to  his  mother’s  side,  and  Silas, 
seeming  to  notice  him  for  the  first  time,  tried  to  return  Dolly’s 
signs  of  goodwill  by  offering  the  lad  a  bit  of  lard-cake.  Aaron 
shrank  back  a  little,  and  rubbed  his  head  against  his  mother’s 
shoulder,  but  still  thought  the  piece  of  cake  worth  the  risk  of 
putting  his  hand  out  for  it. 

“  Oh,  for  shame,  Aaron,”  said  his  mother,  taking  him  on  her 
lap,  however ;  “  why,  you  don’t  want  cake  again  yet  awhile. 
He ’s  wonderful  hearty,”  she  went  on,  with  a  little  sigh  — 
“  that  he  is,  God  knows.  He ’s  my  youngest,  and  we  spoil 
him  sadly,  for  either  me  or  the  father  must  allays  hev  him  in 
our  sight  —  that  we  must.” 

She  stroked  Aaron’s  brown  head,  and  thought  it  must  do 


SILAS  MAKNER. 


801 


Master  Marner  good  to  see  such  a  “  pictur  of  a  child.’’  Bui 
Marner,  on  the  other  side  of  the  hearth,  saw  the  neat-featured 
rosy  face  as  a  mere  dim  round,  with  two  dark  spots  in  it. 

‘‘And  he’s  got  a  voice  like  a  bird  —  you  wouldn’t  think,” 
Dolly  went  on ;  “  he  can  sing  a  Christmas  carril  as  his  father’s 
taught  him  ;  and  I  take  it  for  a  token  as  he  ’ll  come  to  good, 
as  he  can  learn  the  good  tunes  so  quick.  Come,  Aaron,  stan’ 
up  and  sing  the  carril  to  Master  Marner,  come.” 

Aaron  replied  by  rubbing  his  forehead  against  his  mother’s 
shoulder. 

“  Oh,  that ’s  naughty,”  said  Dolly,  gently.  “  Stan’  up,  when 
mother  tells  you,  and  let  me  hold  the  cake  till  you ’ve  done.” 

Aaron  was  not  indisposed  to  display  his  talents,  even  to  an 
ogre,  under  protecting  circumstances ;  and  after  a  few  more 
signs  of  coyness,  consisting  chiefly  in  rubbing  the  backs  of  his 
hands  over  his  eyes,  and  then  peeping  between  them  at  Master 
Marner,  to  see  if  he  looked  anxious  for  the  “  carril,”  he  at 
length  allowed  his  head  to  be  duly  adjusted,  and  standing 
behind  the  table,  which  let  him  appear  above  it  only  as  far  as 
his  broad  frill,  so  that  he  looked  like  a  cherubic  head  un¬ 
troubled  with  a  body,  he  began  with  a  clear  chirp,  and  in  a 
melody  that  had  the  rhythm  of  an  industrious  hammer  — 

“  God  rest  you,  merry  gentlemen, 

Let  nothing  you  dismay, 

For  Jesus  Christ  our  Saviour 
Was  born  on  Christmas-day.” 

Dolly  listened  with  a  devout  look,  glancing  at  Marner  in 
some  confidence  that  this  strain  would  help  to  allure  him  to 
church. 

“  That’s  Christmas  music,”  she  said,  when  Aaron  had  ended, 
and  had  secured  his  piece  of  cake  again.  “  There ’s  no  other 
music  equil  to  the  Christmas  music  —  ‘  Hark  the  erol  angils 
sing.’  And  you  may  judge  what  it  is  at  church.  Master 
Marner,  with  the  bassoon  and  the  voices,  as  you  can’t  help 
thinking  you’ve  got  to  a  better  place  a’ready  —  for  I  wouldn’t 
speak  ill  o’  this  world,  seeing  as  Them  put  us  in  it  as  knows 
best  —  but  what  wi’  the  drink,  and  the  quarrelling,  and  the 


S02 


SILAS  MARNEE. 


bad  illnesses,  and  the  hard  dying,  as  I  We  seen  times  and  times, 
one’s  thankful  to  hear  of  a  better.  The  boy  sings  pretty, 
don’t  he,  Master  Marner  ?  ” 

“Yes,”  said  Silas,  absently,  “very  pretty.” 

The  Christmas  carol,  with  its  hammer-like  rhythm,  had 
fallen  on  his  ears  as  strange  music,  quite  unlike  a  hymn,  and 
could  have  none  of  the  effect  Dolly  contemplated.  But  he 
wanted  to  show  her  that  he  was  grateful,  and  the  only  mode 
that  occurred  to  him  was  to  offer  Aaron  a  bit  more  cake. 

“  Oh  no,  thank  you.  Master  Marner,”  said  Dolly,  holding 
down  Aaron’s  willing  hands.  “  We  must  be  going  home  now. 
And  so  I  wish  you  good-by,  Master  Marner ;  and  if  you  ever 
feel  anyways  bad  in  your  inside,  as  you  can’t  fend  for  yourself, 
I  ’ll  come  and  clean  up  for  you,  and  get  you  a  bit  o’  victual, 
and  willing.  But  I  beg  and  pray  of  you  to  leave  off  weaving 
of  a  Sunday,  for  it ’s  bad  for  soul  and  body  —  and  the  money 
as  comes  i’  that  way  ’ull  be  a  bad  bed  to  lie  down  on  at  the 
last,  if  it  doesn’t  fly  away,  nobody  knows  where,  like  the 
white  frost.  And  you  ’ll  excuse  me  being  that  free  with  you. 
Master  Marner,  for  I  wish  you  well  —  I  do.  Make  your  bow, 
Aaron.” 

Silas  said  “  Good-by,  and  thank  you  kindly,”  as  he  opened 
the  door  for  Dolly,  but  he  could  n’t  help  feeling  relieved  when 
she  was  gone  —  relieved  that  he  might  weave  again  and  moan 
at  his  ease.  Her  simple  view  of  life  and  its  comforts,  by 
which  she  had  tried  to  cheer  him,  was  only  like  a  report  of 
unknown  objects,  which  his  imagination  could  not  fashion. 
The  fountains  of  human  love  and  of  faith  in  a  divine  love  had 
not  yet  been  unlocked,  and  his  soul  was  still  the  shrunken 
rivulet,  with  only  this  difference,  that  its  little  groove  of  sand 
was  blocked  up,  and  it  wandered  confusedly  against  dark 
obstruction. 

And  so,  notwithstanding  the  honest  persuasions  of  Mr. 
Macey  and  Dolly  Winthrop,  Silas  spent  his  Christinas-day  in 
loneliness,  eating  his  meat  in  sadness  of  heart,  though  the 
meat  had  come  to  him  as  a  neighborly  present.  In  the  morn¬ 
ing  he  looked  out  on  the  black  frost  that  seemed  to  press 
cruelly  on  every  blade  of  grass,  while  the  half-icy  red  pool 


SILAS  MARNER. 


303 


shivered  under  the  bitter  wind ;  but  towards  evening  the  snow 
began  to  fall,  and  curtained  from  him  even  that  dreary  out¬ 
look,  shutting  him  close  up  with  his  narrow  grief.  And  he 
sat  in  his  robbed  home  through  the  livelong  evening,  not  car¬ 
ing  to  close  his  shutters  or  lock  his  door,  pressing  his  head 
between  his  hands  and  moaning,  till  the  cold  grasped  him  and 
told  him  that  his  fire  was  gray. 

Nobody  in  this  world  but  himself  knew  that  he  was  the 
same  Silas  Marner  who  had  once  loved  his  fellow  with  tender 
love,  and  trusted  in  an  unseen  goodness.  Even  to  himself 
that  past  experience  had  become  dim. 

But  in  Baveloe  village  the  bells  rang  merrily,  and  the  church 
was  fuller  than  all  through  the  rest  of  the  year,  with  red  faces 
among  the  abundant  dark-green  boughs  —  faces  prepared  for 
a  longer  service  than  usual  by  an  odorous  breakfast  of  toast 
and  ale.  Those  green  boughs,  the  hymn  and  anthem  never 
heard  but  at  Christmas  —  even  the  Athanasian  Creed,  which 
was  discriminated  from  the  others  only  as  being  longer  and  of 
exceptional  virtue,  since  it  was  only  read  on  rare  occasions  — 
brought  a  vague  exulting  sense,  for  which  the  grown  men  could 
as  little  have  found  words  as  the  children,  that  something 
great  and  mysterious  had  been  done  for  them  in  heaven  above 
and  in  earth  below,  which  they  were  appropriating  by  their 
presence.  And  then  the  red  faces  made  their  way  through 
the  black  biting  frost  to  their  own  homes,  feeling  themselves 
free  for  the  rest  of  the  day  to  eat,  drink,  and  be  merry,  and 
using  that  Christian  freedom  without  diffidence. 

At  Squire  Cass’s  family  party  that  day  nobody  mentioned 
Dunstan  —  nobody  was  sorry  for  his  absence,  or  feared  it 
would  be  too  long.  The  doctor  and  his  wife,  uncle  and  aunt 
Kimble,  were  there,  and  the  annual  Christmas  talk  was  carried 
through  without  any  omissions,  rising  to  the  climax  of  Mr. 
Kimble’s  experience  when  he  walked  the  London  hospitals 
thirty  years  back,  together  with  striking  professional  anecdotes 
then  gathered.  Whereupon  cards  followed,  with  aunt  Kimble’s 
annual  failure  to  follow  suit,  and  uncle  Kimble’s  irascibility 
concerning  the  odd  trick  which  was  rarely  explicable  to  him, 
when  it  was  not  on  his  side,  without  a  general  visitation  of 


304 


SILAS  MARNER. 


tricks  to  see  that  they  were  formed  on  sound  principles :  the 
whole  being  accompanied  by  a  strong  steaming  odor  of  spirits- 
and-water. 

But  the  party  on  Christmas-day,  being  a  strictly  family 
party,  was  not  the  pre-eminently  brilliant  celebration  of  the 
season  at  the  Red  House.  It  was  the  great  dance  on  New 
Year’s  Eve  that  made  the  glory  of  Squire  Cass’s  hospitality, 
as  of  his  forefathers’,  time  out  of  mind.  This  was  the  occa¬ 
sion  when  all  the  society  of  Raveloe  and  Tarley,  whether  old 
acquaintances  separated  by  long  rutty  distances,  or  cooled 
acquaintances  separated  by  misunderstandings  concerning  run¬ 
away  calves,  or  acquaintances  founded  on  intermittent  con¬ 
descension,  counted  on  meeting  and  on  comporting  themselves 
with  mutual  appropriateness.  This  was  the  occasion  on  which 
fair  dames  who  came  on  pillions  sent  their  bandboxes  before 
them,  supplied  with  more  than  their  evening  costume  ;  for  the 
feast  was  not  to  end  with  a  single  evening,  like  a  paltry  town 
entertainment,  where  the  whole  supply  of  eatables  is  put  on 
the  table  at  once,  and  bedding  is  scanty.  The  Red  House  was 
provisioned  as  if  for  a  siege ;  and  as  for  the  spare  feather-beds 
ready  to  be  laid  on  floors,  they  were  as  plentiful  as  might  nat¬ 
urally  be  expected  in  a  family  that  had  killed  its  own  geese 
for  many  generations. 

Godfrey  Cass  was  looking  forward  to  this  New  Year’s  Eve 
with  a  foolish  reckless  longing,  that  made  him  half  deaf  to  his 
importunate  companion,  Anxiety. 

Dunsey  will  be  coming  home  soon :  there  will  be  a  great 
blow-up,  and  how  will  you  bribe  his  spite  to  silence  ?  ”  said 
Anxiety. 

“Oh,  he  won’t  come  home  before  New  Year’s  Eve,  perhaps,” 
said  Godfrey ;  “and  I  shall  sit  by  Nancy  then,  and  dance  with 
her,  and  get  a  kind  look  from  her  in  spite  of  herself.” 

“But  money  is  wanted  in  another  quarter,”  said  Anxiety,  in 
a  louder  voice,  “  and  how  will  you  get  it  without  selling  your 
mother’s  diamond  pin  ?  And  if  you  don’t  get  it  .  .  .  ?  ” 

“Well,  but  something  may  happen  to  make  things  easier. 
At  any  rate,  there ’s  one  pleasure  for  me  close  at  hand :  Nancy 
is  coming.” 


SILAS  MARNER. 


305 


"Yes,  and  suppose  your  father  should  bring  matters  to  a 
pass  that  will  oblige  you  to  decline  marrying  her  —  and  to 
give  your  reasons  ?  ” 

"Hold  your  tongue,  and  don’t  worry  me.  I  can  see  Nancy’s 
eyes,  just  as  they  will  look  at  me,  and  feel  her  hand  in  mine 
already.” 

But  Anxiety  went  on,  though  in  noisy  Christmas  company  j 
refusing  to  be  utterly  quieted  even  by  much  drinking. 


CHAPTER  XL 

Some  women,  I  grant,  would  not  appear  to  advantage  seated 
on  a  pillion,  and  attired  iu  a  drab  joseph  and  a  drab  beaver- 
bonnet,  with  a  crown  resembling  a  small  stew-pan  ;  for  a 
garment  suggesting  a  coachman’s  greatcoat,  cut  out  under  an 
exiguity  of  cloth  that  would  only  allow  of  miniature  capes,  is 
not  well  adapted  to  conceal  deficiencies  of  contour,  nor  is  drab 
a  color  that  will  throw  sallow  cheeks  into  lively  contrast.  Tt 
was  all  the  greater  triumph  to  Miss  Nancy  Lammeter’s  beauty 
that  she  looked  thoroughly  bewitching  in  that  costume,  as, 
seated  on  the  pillion  behind  her  tall,  erect  father,  she  held  one 
arm  round  him,  and  looked  down,  with  open-eyed  anxiety,  at 
the  treacherous  snow-covered  pools  and  puddles,  which  sent 
up  formidable  splashings  of  mud  under  the  stamp  of  Dobbin’s 
foot.  A  painter  would,  perhaps,  have  preferred  her  in  those 
moments  when  she  was  free  from  self-consciousness ;  but  cer¬ 
tainly  the  bloom  on  her  cheeks  was  at  its  highest  point  of 
contrast  with  the  surrounding  drab  when  she  arrived  at  the 
door  of  the  Red  House,  afid  saw  Mr.  Godfrey  Cass  ready  to 
lift  her  from  the  pillion.  She  wished  her  sister  Priscilla  had 
come  up  at  the  same  time  behind  the  servant,  for  then  she 
would  have  contrived  that  Mr.  Godfrey  should  have  lifted  off 
Priscilla  first,  and,  in  the  meantime,  she  would  have  persuaded 
her  father  to  go  round  to  the  horse-block  instead  of  alighting 


VOL.  VI. 


306 


SILAS  MARKER. 


at  the  door-steps.  It  was  very  painful,  when  you  had  made  it 
quite  clear  to  a  young  man  that  you  were  determined  not  to 
marry  him,  however  much  he  might  wish  it,  that  he  would 
still  continue  to  pay  you  marked  attentions ;  besides,  why 
did  n’t  he  always  show  the  same  attentions,  if  he  meant  them 
sincerely,  instead  of  being  so  strange  as  Mr.  Godfrey  Cass 
was,  sometimes  behaving  as  if  he  did  n’t  want  to  speak  to  her, 
and  taking  no  notice  of  her  for  weeks  and  weeks,  and  then,  all 
on  a  sudden,  almost  making  love  again  ?  Moreover,  it  was 
quite  plain  he  had  no  real  love  for  her,  else  he  would  not  let 
people  have  that  to  say  of  him  which  they  did  say.  Did  he 
suppose  that  Miss  Nancy  Lammeter  was  to  be  won  by  any 
man,  squire  or  no  squire,  who  led  a  bad  life  ?  That  was  not 
what  she  had  been  used  to  see  in  her  own  father,  who  was 
the  soberest  and  best  man  in  that  country-side,  only  a  little 
hot  and  hasty  now  and  then,  if  things  were  not  done  to  the 
minute. 

All  these  thoughts  rushed  through  Miss  Nancy’s  mind,  in 
their  habitual  succession,  in  the  moments  between  her  first  sight 
of  Mr.  Godfrey  Cass  standing  at  the  door  and  her  own  arrival 
there.  Happily,  the  Squire  came  out  too  and  gave  a  loud 
greeting  to  her  father,  so  that,  somehow,  under  cover  of  thif> 
noise  she  seemed  to  find  concealment  for  her  confusion  and 
neglect  of  any  suitably  formal  behavior,  while  she  was  being 
lifted  from  the  pillion  by  strong  arms  which  seemed  to  find 
her  ridiculously  small  and  light.  And  there  was  the  best 
reason  for  hastening  into  the  house  at  once,  since  the  snow 
was  beginning  to  fall  again,  threatening  an  unpleasant  journey 
for  such  guests  as  were  still  on  the  road.  These  were  a  small 
minority  ;  for  already  the  afternoon  was  beginning  to  decline, 
and  there  would  not  be  too  much  time  for  the  ladies  who  came 
from  a  distance  to  attire  themselves  in  readiness  for  the  early 
tea  which  was  to  inspirit  them  for  the  dance. 

There  was  abuzz  of  voices  through  the  house,  as  Miss  Nancy 
entered,  mingled  with  the  scrape  of  a  fiddle  preluding  in  the 
kitchen ;  but  the  Lammeters  were  guests  whose  arrival  had 
evidently  been  thought  of  so  much  that  it  had  been  watched 
for  from  the  windows,  for  Mrs.  Kimble,  who  did  the  honors 


SILAS  MARKER. 


307 


at  the  Eed  House  on  these  great  occasions,  came  forward  to 
meet  Miss  Nancy  in  the  hall,  and  conduct  her  up-stairs.  Mrs. 
Kimble  was  the  Squire’s  sister,  as  well  as  the  doctor’s  wife  — 
a  double  dignity,  with  which  her  diameter  was  in  direct  pro¬ 
portion  ;  so  that,  a  journey  up-stairs  being  rather  fatiguing  to 
her,  she  did  not  oppose  Miss  Nancy’s  request  to  be  allowed 
to  find  her  way  alone  to  the  Blue  Boom,  where  the  Miss 
Lammeters’  bandboxes  had  been  deposited  on  their  arrival  in 
the  morning. 

There  was  hardly  a  bedroom  in  the  house  where  feminine 
compliments  were  not  passing  and  feminine  toilettes  going 
forward,  in  various  stages,  in  space  made  scanty  by  extra  beds 
spread  upon  the  floor;  and  Miss  Nancy,  as  she  entered  the 
Blue  Room,  had  to  make  her  little  formal  curtsy  to  a  group  of 
six.  On  the  one  hand,  there  were  ladies  no  less  important 
than  the  two  Miss  Gunns,  the  wine  merchant’s  daughters  from 
Lytherly,  dressed  in  the  height  of  fashion,  with  the  tightest 
skirts  and  the  shortest  waists,  and  gazed  at  by  Miss  Ladbrook 
(of  the  Old  Pastures)  with  a  shyness  not  unsustained  by  in¬ 
ward  criticism.  Partly,  Miss  Ladbrook  felt  that  her  own  skirt 
must  be  regarded  as  unduly  lax  by  the  Miss  Gunns,  and  partly, 
that  it  was  a  pity  the  Miss  Gunns  did  not  show  that  judgment 
which  she  herself  would  show  if  she  were  in  their  place,  by 
stopping  a  little  on  this  side  of  the  fashion.  On  the  other  hand, 
Mrs.  Ladbrook  was  standing  in  skull-cap  and  front,  with  her  tur¬ 
ban  in  her  hand,  curtsying  and  smiling  blandly  and  saying, 
“  After  you,  ma’am,”  to  another  lady  in  similar  circumstances, 
who  had  politely  offered  the  precedence  at  the  looking-glass. 

But  Miss  Nancy  had  no  sooner  made  her  curtsy  than  an 
elderly  lady  came  forward,  whose  full  white  muslin  kerciiief, 
and  mob-cap  round  her  curls  of  smooth  gray  hair,  were  in  dar¬ 
ing  contrast  with  the  puffed  yellow  satins  and  top-knotted  caps 
of  her  neighbors.  She  approached  Miss  Nancy  with  much 
primness,  and  said,  with  a  slow,  treble  suavity  — 

“Niece,  I  hope  I  see  you  well  in  health.”  Miss  Nancy 
kissed  her  aunt’s  cheek  dutifully,  and  answered,  with  the  same 
sort  of  amiable  primness,  “Quite  well,  I  thank  you,  aunt;  and 
I  hope  I  see  you  the  same.” 


308 


SILAS  MARNER. 


“  Thank  you,  niece ;  I  keep  my  health  for  the  present.  And 
how  is  my  brother-in-law  ?  ” 

These  dutiful  questions  and  answers  were  continued  until 
it  was  ascertained  in  detail  that  the  Lammeters  were  all  as  well 
as  usual,  and  the  Osgoods  likewise,  also  that  niece  Priscilla 
must  certainly  arrive  shortly,  and  that  travelling  on  pillions 
in  snowy  weather  was  unpleasant,  though  a  Joseph  was  a  great 
protection.  Then  Nancy  was  formally  introduced  to  her  aunt’s 
visitors,  the  Miss  Gunns,  as  being  the  daughters  of  a  mother 
known  to  their  mother,  though  now  for  the  first  time  induced 
to  make  a  journey  into  these  parts ;  and  these  ladies  were  so 
taken  by  surprise  at  finding  such  a  lovely  face  and  figure  in  an 
out-of-the-way  country  place,  that  they  began  to  feel  some  cu¬ 
riosity  about  the  dress  she  would  put  on  when  she  took  off  her 
Joseph.  Miss  Nancy,  whose  thoughts  were  always  conducted 
with  the  propriety  and  moderation  conspicuous  in  her  man¬ 
ners,  remarked  to  herself  that  the  Miss  Gunns  were  rather  hard- 
featured  than  otherwise,  and  that  such  very  low  dresses  as 
they  wore  might  have  been  attributed  to  vanity  if  their  shoul¬ 
ders  had  been  pretty,  but  that,  being  as  they  were,  it  was  not 
reasonable  to  suppose  that  they  showed  their  necks  from  a 
love  of  display,  but  rather  from  some  obligation  not  inconsis¬ 
tent  with  sense  and  modesty.  She  felt  convinced,  as  she 
opened  her  box,  that  this  must  be  her  aunt  Osgood’s  opinion, 
for  Miss  Nancy’s  mind  resembled  her  aunt’s  to  a  degree  that 
everybody  said  was  surprising,  considering  the  kinship  was 
on  Mr.  Osgood’s  side  ;  and  though  you  might  not  have  sup¬ 
posed  it  from  the  formality  of  their  greeting,  there  was  a  de¬ 
voted  attachment  and  mutual  admiration  between  aunt  and 
niece.  Even  Miss  Nancy’s  refusal  of  her  cousin  Gilbert 
Osgood  (on  the  ground  solely  that  he  was  her  cousin),  though 
it  had  grieved  her  aunt  greatly,  had  not  in  the  least  cooled 
the  preference  which  had  determined  her  to  leave  Nancy  sev¬ 
eral  of  her  hereditary  ornaments,  let  Gilbert’s  future  wife  be 
whom  she  might. 

Three  of  the  ladies  quickly  retired,  but  the  Miss  Gunns  were 
quite  content  that  Mrs.  Osgood’s  inclination  to  remain  with 
her  niece  gave  them  also  a  reason  for  staying  to  see  the  rustic 


SILAS  MARNER. 


ao9 

beauty^s  toilette.  And  it  was  really  a  pleasure  —  from  the 
first  opening  of  the  bandbox,  where  everything  smelt  of  laven¬ 
der  and  rose-leaves,  to  the  clasping  of  the  small  coral  necklace 
that  fitted  closely  round  her  little  white  neck.  Everything 
belonging  to  Miss  Nancy  was  of  delicate  purity  and  nattiness : 
not  a  crease  was  where  it  had  no  business  to  be,  not  a  bit  of 
her  linen  professed  whiteness  without  fulfilling  its  profession ; 
the  very  pins  on  her  pincushion  were  stuck  in  after  a  pattern 
from  which  she  was  careful  to  allow  no  aberration ;  and  as  for 
her  own  person,  it  gave  the  same  idea  of  perfect  unvarying 
neatness  as  the  body  of  a  little  bird.  It  is  true  that  her  light- 
brown  hair  was  cropped  behind  like  a  boy’s,  and  was  dressed 
in  front  in  a  number  of  flat  rings,  that  lay  quite  away  from 
her  face ;  but  there  was  no  sort  of  coiffure  that  could  make 
Miss  Nancy’s  cheek  and  neck  look  otherwise  than  pretty ;  and 
when  at  last  she  stood  complete  in  her  silvery  twilled  silk,  her 
lace  tucker,  her  coral  necklace,  and  coral  ear-drops,  the  Miss 
Gunns  could  see  nothing  to  criticise  except  her  hands,  which 
bore  the  traces  of  butter-making,  cheese-crushing,  and  even 
still  coarser  work.  But  Miss  Nancy  was  not  ashamed  of  that, 
for  while  she  was  dressing  she  narrated  to  her  aunt  how  she 
and  Priscilla  had  packed  their  boxes  yesterday,  because  this 
morning  was  baking  morning,  and  since  they  were  leaving 
home,  it  was  desirable  to  make  a  good  supply  of  meat-pies  for 
the  kitchen ;  and  as  she  concluded  this  judicious  remark,  she 
turned  to  the  Miss  Gunns  that  she  might  not  commit  the  rude¬ 
ness  of  not  including  them  in  the  conversation.  The  Miss 
Gunns  smiled  stiffly,  and  thought  what  a  pity  it  was  that  these 
rich  country  people,  who  could  afford  to  buy  such  good  clothes 
(really  Miss  Nancy’s  lace  and  silk  were  very  costly),  should 
be  brought  up  in  utuci  ignorance  and  vulgarity.  She  actually 
said  “  mate  ”  for  ‘‘  meat,”  “  ’appen  ”  for  “  perhaps,”  and  “  oss 
for  “  horse,”  which,  to  young  ladies  living  in  good  Lytherly 
society,  who  habitually  said  ’orse,  even  in  domestic  privacy, 
and  only  said  ’appen  on  the  right  occasions,  was  necessarily 
shocking.  Miss  Nancy,  indeed,  had  never  been  to  any  school 
higher  than  Dame  Tedman’s  :  her  acquaintance  with  profane 
literature  hardly  went  beyond  the  rhymes  she  had  worked  in 


SILAS  MARKER. 


>^i\) 

her  large  sampler  under  the  lamb  and  the  shepherdess ;  and 
in  order  to  balance  an  account,  she  was  obliged  to  effect  her 
subtraction  by  removing  visible  metallic  shillings  and  six¬ 
pences  from  a  visible  metallic  total.  There  is  hardly  a  servant- 
maid  in  these  days  who  is  not  better  informed  than  Miss 
Nancy  ;  yet  she  had  the  essential  attributes  of  a  lady  —  high 
veracity,  delicate  honor  in  her  dealings,  deference  to  others, 
and  refined  personal  habits,  —  and  lest  these  should  not  suffice 
to  convince  grammatical  fair  ones  that  her  feelings  can  at  all 
resemble  theirs,  I  will  add  that  she  was  slightly  proud  and 
exacting,  and  as  constant  in  her  affection  towards  a  baseless 
opinion  as  towards  an  erring  lover. 

The  anxiety  about  sister  Priscilla,  which  had  grown  rather 
active  by  the  time  the  coral  necklace  was  clasped,  was  happily 
ended  by  the  entrance  of  that  cheerful-looking  lady  herself, 
with  a  face  made  blowsy  by  cold  and  damp.  After  the  first 
questions  and  greetings,  she  turned  to  Nancy,  and  surveyed 
her  from  head  to  foot  —  then  wheeled  her  round,  to  ascertain 
that  the  back  view  was  equally  faultless. 

“  What  do  you  think  o’  these  gowns,  aunt  Osgood  ?  ”  said 
Priscilla,  while  Nancy  helped  her  to  unrobe. 

“Very  handsome  indeed,  niece,”  said  Mrs.  Osgood,  with  a 
slight  increase  of  formality.  She  always  thought  niece  Pris¬ 
cilla  too  rough. 

“I’m  obliged  to  have  the  same  as  Nancy,  you  know,  for 
all  I ’m  five  years  older,  and  it  makes  me  look  yallow ;  for 
she  never  will  have  anything  witliout  I  have  mine  just  like 
it,  because  she  wants  us  to  look  like  sisters.  And  I  tell  her, 
folks  ’ull  think  it ’s  my  weakness  makes  me  fancy  as  I  shall 
look  pretty  in  what  she  looks  pretty  in.  For  I  am  ugly  — 
there ’s  no  denying  that :  I  feature  my  father’s  family.  But, 
law !  I  don’t  mind,  do  you  ?  ”  Priscilla  here  turned  to  the 
Miss  Gunns,  rattling  on  in  too  much  preoccupation  with  the 
delight  of  talking,  to  notice  that  her  candor  was  not  appre¬ 
ciated.  “  The  pretty  uns  do  for  fly-catchers  —  they  keep  the 
men  off  us.  I ’ve  no  opinion  o’  the  men.  Miss  Gunn  —  I  don’t 
know  what  you  have.  And  as  for  fretting  and  stewing  about 
what  they  ’ll  think  of  you  from  morning  till  night,  and  making 


SILAS  MAKNER. 


811 


your  life  uneasy  about  what  they  he  doing  when  they  ’re  out 
o’  your  sight — as  I  tell  Nancy,  it’s  a  folly  no  woman  need 
be  guilty  of,  if  she ’s  got  a  good  father  and  a  good  home  ;  let 
her  leave  it  to  them  as  have  got  no  fortin,  and  can’t  help 
themselves.  As  1  say,  Mr.  Have-your-own-way  is  the  best 
husband,  and  the  only  one  I ’d  ever  promise  to  obey.  I  know 
it  is  n’t  pleasant,  when  you ’ve  been  used  to  living  in  a  big 
way,  and  managing  hogsheads  and  all  that,  to  go  and  put 
your  nose  in  by  somebody  else’s  fireside,  or  to  sit  down  by 
yourself  to  a  scrag  or  a  knuckle  ;  but,  thank  God !  my  father ’s 
a  sober  man  and  likely  to  live  ;  and  if  you ’ve  got  a  man  by 
the  chimney-corner,  it  does  n’t  matter  if  he ’s  childish  —  the 
business  need  n’t  be  broke  up.” 

The  delicate  process  of  getting  her  narrow  gown  over  her 
iiead  without  injury  to  her  smooth  curls,  obliged  Miss  Pris¬ 
cilla  to  pause  in  this  rapid  survey  of  life,  and  Mrs.  Osgood 
seized  the  opportunity  of  rising  and  saying  — 

.  ‘‘  Well,  niece,  you  ’ll  follow  us.  The  Miss  Gunns  will  like 
to  go  down.” 

“Sister,”  said  Nancy,  when  they  were  alone,  “you’ve  of¬ 
fended  the  Miss  Gunns,  I ’m  sure.” 

“  What  have  I  done,  child  ?  ”  said  Priscilla,  in  some  alarm. 

“  Why,  you  asked  them  if  they  minded  about  being  ugly  — 
you  ’re  so  very  blunt.” 

“Law,  did  I  ?  Well,  it  popped  out:  it’s  a  mercy  I  said  no 
more,  for  I’m  a  bad  un  to  live  with  folks  when  they  don’t 
like  the  truth.  But  as  for  being  ugly,  look  at  me,  child,  in 
this  silver-colored  silk  —  I  told  you  how  it  ’ud  be  —  I  look  as 
yallow  as  a  daffadil.  Anybody  ’ud  say  you  wanted  to  make 
a  mawkin  of  me.” 

“  No.  Priscy,  don’t  say  so.  I  begged  and  prayed  of  you  not 
to  let  us  have  this  silk  if  you ’d  like  another  better.  I  was 
willing  to  have  your  choice,  you  know  I  was,”  said  Nancy,  in 
anxious  self-vindication. 

“  Nonsense,  child  !  you  know  you ’d  set  your  heart  on  this  ; 
and  reason  good,  for  you  ’re  the  color  o’  cream.  It  ’ud  be  fine 
doings  for  you  to  dress  yourself  to  suit  my  skin.  What  I  find 
fault  with,  is  that  notion  o’  yours  as  I  must  dress  myself  just 


SILAS  MARNER. 


4X2 

like  you.  But  you  do  as  you  like  with  me  —  you  always  did, 
from  when  first  you  begun  to  walk.  If  you  wanted  to  go  the 
field’s  length,  the  field’s  length  you ’d  go ;  and  there  was  no 
whipping  you,  for  you  looked  as  prim  and  innicent  as  a  daisy 
all  the  while.” 

“  Priscy,”  said  Nancy,  gently,  as  she  fastened  a  coral  neck= 
lace,  exactly  like  her  own,  round  Priscilla’s  neck,  which  was 
very  far  from  being  like  her  own,  “  I ’m  sure  I ’m  willing  to 
give  way  as  far  as  is  right,  but  who  should  n’t  dress  alike  if  it 
is  n’t  sisters  ?  Would  you  have  us  go  about  looking  as  if  we 
were  no  kin  to  one  another  —  us  that  have  got  no  mother  and 
not  another  sister  in  the  world  ?  I ’d  do  what  was  right,  if  I 
dressed  in  a  gown  dyed  with  cheese-coloring ;  and  I ’d  rather 
you ’d  choose,  and  let  me  wear  what  pleases  you.” 

“  There  you  go  again !  You ’d  come  round  to  the  same 
thing  if  one  talked  to  you  from  Saturday  night  till  Saturday 
morning.  It  ’ll  be  fine  fun  to  see  how  you  ’ll  master  your  hus¬ 
band  and  never  raise  your  voice  above  the  singing  o’  the  kettle 
all  the  while.  I  like  to  see  the  men  mastered  !  ” 

“Don’t  talk  so,  Priscy,”  said  Nancy,  blushing.  “You  know 
I  don’t  mean  ever  to  be  married.” 

“  Oh,  you  never  mean  a  fiddlestick’s  end !  ”  said  Priscilla, 
as  she  arranged  her  discarded  dress,  and  closed  her  bandbox. 
“  Who  shall  I  have  to  work  for  when  father ’s  gone,  if  you  are 
to  go  and  take  notions  in  your  head  and  be  an  old  maid,  be¬ 
cause  some  folks  are  no  better  than  they  should  be  ?  I 
have  n’t  a  bit  o’  patience  with  you  —  sitting  on  an  addled  egg 
forever,  as  if  there  was  never  a  fresh  un  in  the  world.  One 
old  maid ’s  enough  out  o’  two  sisters ;  and  I  shall  do  credit  to 
a  single  life,  for  God  A’mighty  meant  me  for  it.  Come,  we 
can  go  down  now.  I ’m  as  ready  as  a  mawkin  can  be  — 
there’s  nothing  awanting  to  frighten  the  crows,  now  I’ve  got 
my  ear-droppers  in.” 

As  the  two  Miss  Lam  meters  walked  into  the  large  parlor 
together,  any  one  who  did  not  know  the  character  of  both 
might  certainly  have  supposed  that  the  reason  why  the  square¬ 
shouldered,  clumsy,  high-featured  Priscilla  wore  a  dress  the 
facsimile  of  her  pretty  sister’s,  was  either  the  mistaken  vanity 


SILAS  MARNLR. 


313 


of  the  one,  or  the  malicious  contrivance  of  the  other  in  ordei 
to  set  off  her  own  rare  beauty.  But  the  good-natured  self 
forgetful  cheeriness  and  common-sense  of  Priscilla  would  sooj 
have  dissipated  the  one  suspicion ;  and  the  modest  calm  ol 
Nancy’s  speech  and  manners  told  clearly  of  a  mind  free  from 
all  disavowed  devices. 

Places  of  honor  had  been  kept  for  the  Miss  Lamraeters  near 
the  head  of  the  principal  tea-table  in  the  wainscoted  parlor, 
now  looking  fresh  and  pleasant  with  handsome  branches  of 
holly,  yew,  and  laurel,  from  the  abundant  growths  of  the  old 
garden;  and  Nancy  felt  an  inward  flutter,  that  no  firmness 
of  purpose  could  prevent,  when  she  saw  Mr.  Godfrey  Cass 
advancing  to  lead  her  to  a  seat  between  himself  and  Mr. 
Crackenthorp,  while  Priscilla  was  called  to  the  opposite  side 
between  her  father  and  the  Squire.  It  certainly  did  make 
some  difference  to  Nancy  that  the  lover  she  had  given  up  was 
the  young  man  of  quite  the  highest  consequence  in  the  parish 
—  at  home  in  a  venerable  and  unique  parlor,  which  was  the 
extremity  of  grandeur  in  her  experience,  a  parlor  where  she, 
might  one  day  have  been  mistress,  with  the  consciousness  that 
she  was  spoken  of  as  Madam  Cass,”  the  Squire’s  wife. 
These  circumstances  exalted  her  inward  drama  in  her  own 
eyes,  and  deepened  the  emphasis  with  which  she  declared  to 
herself  that  not  the  most  dazzling  rank  should  induce  her  to 
marry  a  man  whose  conduct  showed  him  careless  of  his  charac¬ 
ter,  but  that,  “love  once,  love  always,”  was  the  motto  of  a 
true  and  pure  woman,  and  no  man  should  ever  have  any  right 
over  her  which  would  be  a  call  on  her  to  destroy  the  dried 
flowers  that  she  treasured,  and  always  would  treasure,  for 
Godfrey  Cass’s  sake.  And  Nancy  was  capable  of  keeping 
her  word  to  herself  under  very  trying  conditions.  Nothing 
but  a  becoming  blush  betrayed  the  moving  thoughts  that 
urged  themselves  upon  her  as  she  accepted  the  seat  next  to 
Mr.  Crackenthorp ;  for  she  was  so  instinctively  neat  and 
adroit  in  all  her  actions,  and  her  pretty  lips  met  each  other 
with  such  quiet  firmness,  that  it  would  have  been  difficult  for 
her  to  appear  agitated. 

It  was  not  the  Rector’s  practice  to  let  a  charming  blush 


314 


SILAS  MARNER. 


pass  witttout  an  appropriate  compliment.  He  was  not  in  the 
least  lotty  or  aristocratic,  but  simply  a  merry-eyed,  small- 
featured,  gray-liaired  man,  with  his  chin  propped  by  an  ample 
many-ci eased  white  neckcloth  which  seemed  to  predominate 
over  every  other  point  in  his  person,  and  somehow  to  impress 
its  peculiar  character  on  his  remarks ;  so  that  to  have  con¬ 
sidered  his  amenities  apart  from  his  cravat  would  have  been 
a  severe,  and  perhaps  a  dangerous,  effort  of  abstraction. 

“Ha,  Miss  Haney,”  he  said,  turning  his  head  within  hit 
cravat  and  smiling  down  pleasantly  upon  her,  “  when  anybody 
pretends  this  has  been  a  severe  winter,  I  shall  tell  them  J 
saw  the  roses  blooming  on  Hew  Year’s  Eve  —  eh,  Godfrey, 
what  do  you  say  ?  ” 

Godfrey  made  no  reply,  and  avoided  looking  at  Haney  very 
markedly  ;  for  though  these  complimentary  personalities  were 
held  to  be  in  excellent  taste  in  old-fashioned  Raveloe  society, 
reverent  love  has  a  politeness  of  its  own  which  it  teaches  to 
men  otherwise  of  small  schooling.  But  the  Squire  was  rather 
impatient  at  Godfrey’s  showing  himself  a  dull  spark  in  this 
way.  By  this  advanced  hour  of  the  day,  the  Squire  was 
always  in  higher  spirits  than  we  have  seen  him  in  at  the 
breakfast-table,  and  felt  it  quite  pleasant  to  fulfil  the  heredi¬ 
tary  duty  of  being  noisily  jovial  and  patronizing  :  the  largo 
silver  snuff-box  was  in  active  service  and  was  offered  without 
fail  to  all  iieighbors  from  time  to  time,  however  often  they 
might  have  declined  the  favor.  At  present,  the  Squire  had 
only  given  an  express  welcome  to  the  heads  of  families  as  they 
appeared ;  but  always  as  the  evening  deepened,  his  hospitality 
rayed  out  more  widely,  till  he  had  tapped  the  youngest  guestf 
on  the  back  and  shown  a  peculiar  fondness  for  their  presence 
in  the  full  belief  that  they  must  feel  their  lives  made  happy 
oy  their  belonging  to  a  parish  where  there  was  such  a  hearty 
man  as  Squire  Cass  to  invite  them  and  wish  them  well.  Even 
in  this  early  stage  of  the  jovial  mood,  it  was  natural  that  he 
should  wish  to  supply  his  son’s  deficiencies  by  looking  and 
speaking  for  him. 

“  Ay,  ay,”  he  began,  offering  his  snuff-box  to  Mr.  Lammeter, 
who  for  the  second  time  bowed  his  head  a,nd  waved  his  hand 


SILAS  MARNER. 


815 


in  stiff  rejection  of  the  offer,  “  us  old  fellows  may  wish  our¬ 
selves  young  to-night,  when  we  see  the  mistletoe-bough,  in  the 
White  Parlor.  It’s  true,  most  things  are  gone  back’ard  in 
these  last  thirty  years  —  the  country ’s  going  down  since  the 
old  king  fell  ill.  But  when  I  look  at  Miss  Nancy  here,  I  begin 
to  think  the  lasses  keep  up  their  qualitj^ ;  —  ding  me  if  I  re¬ 
member  a  sample  to  match  her,  not  when  I  was  a  fine  young 
fellow,  and  thought  a  deal  about  my  pigtail.  No  oflence  to 
you,  madam,”  he  added,  bending  to  Mrs.  Crackenthovp,  whn 
sat  by  him,  I  did  n’t  know  you  when  you  were  as  young  as 
Miss  Nancy  here.” 

Mrs.  Crackenthorp  —  a  small  blinking  woman,  who  fidgeted 
incessantly  with  her  lace,  ribbons,  and  gold  chain,  turning  her 
head  about  and  making  subdued  noises,  very  much  like  a 
guinea-pig  that  twitches  its  nose  and  soliloquizes  in  all  com¬ 
pany  indiscriminately  —  now  blinked  and  fidgeted  towards  the 
Squire,  and  said,  Oh  no  —  no  offence.” 

This  emphatic  compliment  of  the  Squire’s  to  Nancy  was 
felt  by  others  besides  Godfrey  to  have  a  diplomatic  signifi¬ 
cance  ;  and  her  father  gave  a  slight  additional  erectness  to  his 
back,  as  he  looked  across  the  table  at  her  with  complacent 
gravity.  That  grave  and  orderly  senior  was  not  going  to  bate 
a  jot  of  his  dignity  by  seeming  elated  at  the  notion  of  a  match 
between  his  family  and  the  Squire’s  :  he  was  gratified  by  any 
honor  paid  to  his  daughter  ;  but  he  must  see  an  alteration  in 
several  ways  before  his  consent  would  be  vouchsafed.  His 
spare  but  healthy  person,  and  high-featured  firm  face,  that 
looked  as  if  it  had  never  been  flushed  by  excess,  was  in  strong 
contrast,  not  only  with  the  Squire’s,  but  with  the  appearance 
of  the  Raveloe  farmers  generally  —  in  accordance  with  a 
favorite  saying  of  his  own,  that  “breed  was  stronger  than 
pasture.” 

“  Miss  Nancy ’s  wonderful  like  what  her  mother  was,  though  ; 
is  n’t  she,  Kimble  ?  ”  said  the  stout  lady  of  that  name,  looking 
round  for  her  husband. 

But  Doctor  Kimble  (country  apothecaries  in  old  days  en¬ 
joyed  that  title  without  authority  of  diploma),  being  a  thin 
and  agile  man,  was  flitting  about  the  room  with  his  hands  in 


316 


SILAS  MAKNER. 


his  pockets,  making  himself  agreeable  to  his  feminine  patients, 
with  medical  impartiality,  and  being  welcomed  everywhere  as 
a  doctor  by  hereditary  right  —  not  one  of  those  miserable 
apothecaries  who  canvass  for  practice  in  strange  neighbor¬ 
hoods,  and  spend  all  their  income  in  starving  their  one  horse, 
but  a  man  of  substance,  able  to  keep  an  extravagant  table  like 
the  best  of  his  patients.  Time  out  of  mind  the  Eaveloe  doc¬ 
tor  had  been  a  Kimble ;  Kimble  was  inherently  a  doctor’s 
name ;  and  it  was  difficult  to  contemplate  firmly  the  melan¬ 
choly  fact  that  the  actual  Kimble  had  no  son,  so  that  his  prac¬ 
tice  might  one  day  be  handed  over  to  a  successor  with  the 
incongruous  name  of  Taylor  or  Johnson.  But  in  that  case  the 
wiser  people  in  Kaveloe  would  employ  Dr.  Blick  of  Flitton  — 
as  less  unnatural. 

Did  you  speak  to  me,  my  dear  ?  ”  said  the  authentic  doc¬ 
tor,  coming  quickly  to  his  wife’s  side;  but,  as  if  foreseeing 
that  she  would  be  too  much  out  of  breath  to  repeat  her  re¬ 
mark,  he  went  on  immediately  —  “  Ha,  Miss  Priscilla,  the 
sight  of  you  revives  the  taste  of  that  super-excellent  pork -pie. 
I  hope  the  batch  is  n’t  near  an  end.” 

“Yes,  indeed,  it  is,  doctor,”  said  Priscilla;  “but  I’ll  an¬ 
swer  for  it  the  next  shall  be  as  good.  My  pork-pies  don’t 
turn  out  well  by  chance.” 

“  Kot  as  your  doctoring  does,  eh,  Kimble  ?  —  because  folks 
forget  to  take  your  physic,  eh  ?  ”  said  the  Squire,  who  re¬ 
garded  physic  and  doctors  as  many  loyal  churchmen  regard 
the  church  and  the  clergy —  tasting  a  joke  against  them  when 
he  was  in  health,  but  impatiently  eager  for  their  aid  when 
anything  was  the  matter  with  him.  He  tapped  his  box,  and 
looked  round  with  a  triumphant  laugh. 

“  Ah,  she  has  a  quick  wit,  my  friend  Priscilla  has,”  said  the 
doctor,  choosing  to  attribute  the  epigram  to  a  lady  rather  than 
allow  a  brother-in-law  that  advantage  over  him.  “  She  saves 
a  little  pepper  to  sprinkle  over  her  talk  —  that ’s  the  reason 
why  she  never  puts  too  much  into  her  pies.  There ’s  my  wife, 
now,  she  never  has  an  answer  at  her  tongue’s  end ;  but  if  I 
offend  her,  she ’s  sure  to  scarify  my  throat  with  black  pepper 
the  next  day,  or  else  give  me  the  colic  with  watery  greens. 


SILAS  MARNER.  317 

That ’s  an  awful  tit-for-tat.”  Here  the  vivacious  doctor  made 
a  pathetic  grimace. 

“  Did  you  ever  hear  the  like  ?  ”  said  Mrs.  Kimble,  laughing 
above  her  double  chin  with  much  good-humor,  aside  to  Mrs. 
Crackenthorp,  who  blinked  and  nodded,  and  amiably  intended 
to  smile,  but  the  intention  lost  itself  in  small  twitchings  and 
noises. 

“  I  suppose  that ’s  the  sort  of  tit-for-tat  adopted  in  your  pro¬ 
fession,  Kimble,  if  you ’ve  a  grudge  against  a  patient,”  said 
the  Rector. 

‘‘Never  do  have  a  grudge  against  our  patients,”  said  Mr. 
Kimble,  “  except  when  they  leave  us  ;  and  then,  you  see,  we 
have  n’t  the  chance  of  prescribing  for  ’em.  Ha,  Miss  Nancy,” 
he  continued,  suddenly  skipping  to  Nancy’s  side,  “you  won’t 
forget  your  promise  ?  You  ’re  to  save  a  dance  for  me,  you 
know.” 

“Come,  come,  Kimble,  don’t  you  be  too  for’ard,”  said  the 
Squire.  “Give  the  young  uns  fair-play.  There’s  my  son 
Godfrey  ’ll  be  wanting  to  have  a  round  with  you  if  you  run 
oif  with  Miss  Nancy.  He ’s  bespoke  her  for  the  first  dance, 
I  ’ll  be  bound.  Eh,  sir  !  what  do  you  say  ?  ”  he  continued, 
throwing  himself  backward,  and  looking  at  Godfrey.  “  Have  n’t 
you  asked  Miss  Nancy  to  open  the  dance  with  you  ?  ” 

Godfrey,  sorely  uncomfortable  under  this  significant  insist¬ 
ence  about  Nancy,  and  afraid  to  think  where  it  would  end  by  the 
time  his  father  had  set  his  usual  hospitable  example  of  drinking 
before  and  after  supper,  saw  no  course  open  but  to  turn  to 
Nancy  and  say,  with  as  little  awkwardness  as  possible  — 

“  No ;  I ’ve  not  asked  her  yet,  but  I  hope  she  ’ll  consent  — 
if  somebody  else  has  n’t  been  before  me.” 

“No,  I ’ve  not  engaged  myself,”  said  Nancy,  quietly,  though 
blushingly.  (If  Mr.  Godfrey  founded  any  hopes  on  her  con¬ 
senting  to  dance  with  him,  he  would  soon  be  undeceived  ;  but 
there  was  no  need  for  her  to  be  uncivil.) 

“  Then  I  hope  you ’ve  no  objections  to  dancing  with  me,” 
said  Godfrey,  beginning  to  lose  the  sense  that  there  was  any¬ 
thing  uncomfortable  in  this  arrangement. 

“No,  no  objections,”  said  Nancy,  in  a  cold  tone. 


318 


SILAS  MARNER. 


“  Ah,  well,  you  ’re  a  lucky  fellow,  Godfrey,”  said  uncle 
Kimble  ;  “  but  you  ’re  my  godson,  so  I  won’t  stand  in  your 
way.  Else  I ’m  not  so  very  old,  eh,  my  dear  ?  ”  he  went  on, 
skipping  to  his  wife’s  side  again.  “You  wouldn’t  mind  my 
having  a  second  after  you  were  gone  —  not  if  I  cried  a  good 
deal  first?” 

“  Come,  come,  take  a  cup  o’  tea  and  stop  your  tongue,  do,” 
said  good-humored  Mrs.  Kimble,  feeling  some  pride  in  a  hus¬ 
band  who  must  be  regarded  as  so  clever  and  amusing  by  the 
company  generally.  If  he  had  only  not  been  irritable  at  cards  ! 

While  safe,  well-tested  personalities  were  enlivening  the  tea 
in  this  way,  the  sound  of  the  fiddle  approaching  within  a  dis¬ 
tance  at  which  it  could  be  heard  distinctly,  made  the  young 
people  look  at  each  other  with  sympathetic  impatience  for  the 
end  of  the  meal. 

“  Why,  there ’s  Solomon  in  the  hall,”  said  the  Squire,  “  and 
playing  my  fav’rite  tune,  I  believe  —  ‘The  flaxen-headed 
ploughboy  ’  —  he ’s  for  giving  us  a  hint  as  we  are  n’t  enough 
in  a  hurry  to  hear  him  play.  Bob,”  he  called  out  to  his  third 
long-legged  son,  who  was  at  the  other  end  of  the  room,  “  open 
the  door,  and  tell  Solomon  to  come  in.  He  shall  give  us  a 
tune  here.” 

Bob  obeyed,  and  Solomon  walked  in,  fiddling  as  he  walked, 
for  he  would  on  no  account  break  off  in  the  middle  of  a  tune. 

“  Here,  Solomon,”  said  the  Squire,  with  loud  patronage. 
“  Bound  here,  my  man.  Ah,  I  knew  it  was  ‘The  flaxen-headed 
ploughboy  2  ’  there ’s  no  finer  tune.” 

Solomon  Macey,  a  small  hale  old  man,  with  an  abundant 
crop  of  long  white  hair  reaching  nearly  to  his  shoulders,  ad¬ 
vanced  to  the  indicated  spot,  bowing  reverently  while  he 
fiddled,  as  much  as  to  say  that  he  respected  the  company  though 
he  respected  the  key-note  more.  As  soon  as  he  had  repeated 
the  tune  and  lowered  his  fiddle,  he  bowed  again  to  the  Squire 
and  the  Kector,  and  said,  “  I  hope  I  see  your  honor  and  your 
reverence  well,  and  wishing  you  health  and  long  life  and  a  happy 
Hew  Year.  And  wishing  the  same  to  you,  Mr.  Lammeter,  sir; 
and  to  the  other  gentlemen,  and  the  madams,  and  the  young 
lasses.” 


SILAS  MARNER. 


8iy 

As  Solomon  uttered  the  last  words,  he  bowed  in  all  direc¬ 
tions  solicitously,  lest  he  should  be  wanting  in  due  respect. 
But  thereupon  he  immediately  began  to  prelude,  and  fell  into 
the  tune  which  he  knew  would  be  taken  as  a  special  complh 
ment  by  Mr.  Lammeter. 

“  Thank  ye,  Solomon,  thank  ye,”  said  Mr.  Lammeter  when 
the  fiddle  paused  again.  “  That 's  ‘  Over  the  hills  and  far 
away,’  that  is.  My  father  used  to  say  to  me,  whenever  we  heard 
that  tune,  ‘  Ah,  lad,  I  come  from  over  the  hills  and  far  away.’ 
There ’s  a  many  tunes  I  don’t  make  head  or  tail  of ;  out  that 
speaks  to  me  like  the  blackbird’s  whistle.  I  suppose  it ’s  the 
name :  there ’s  a  deal  in  the  name  of  a  tune.” 

But  Solomon  was  already  impatient  to  prelude  again,  and 
presently  broke  with  much  spirit  into  “  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley,” 
at  which  there  was  a  sound  of  chairs  pushed  back,  and  laugh¬ 
ing  voices. 

‘‘Ay,  ay,  Solomon,  we  know  what  that  means,”  said  the 
Squire,  rising.  “  It ’s  time  to  begin  the  dance,  eh  ?  Lead  the 
way,  then,  and  we  ’ll  all  follow  you.” 

So  Solomon,  holding  his  white  head  on  one  side,  and  play¬ 
ing  vigorously,  marched  forward  at  the  head  of  the  gay  pro¬ 
cession  into  the  White  Parlor,  where  the  mistletoe-bough  was 
hung,  and  multitudinous  tallow  candles  made  rather  a  brilliant 
effect,  gleaming  from  among  the  berried  holly-boughs,  and 
reflected  in  the  old-fashioned  oval  mirrors  fastened  in  the 
panels  of  the  white  wainscot.  A  quaint  procession !  Old 
Solomon,  in  his  seedy  clothes  and  long  white  locks,  seemed 
to  be  luring  that  decent  company  by  the  magic  scream  of  his 
fiddle  —  luring  discreet  matrons  in  turban-shaped  caps,  nay, 
Mrs.  Crackenthorp  herself,  the  summit  of  whose  perpendicular 
feather  was  on  a  level  with  the  Squire’s  shoulder  —  luring  fair 
lasses  complacently  conscious  of  very  short  waists  and  skirts 
blameless  of  front-folds  —  luring  burly  fathers  in  large  varie¬ 
gated  waistcoats,  and  ruddy  sons,  for  the  most  part  shy  and 
sheepish,  in  short  nether  garments  and  very  long  coat-tails. 

Already  Mr.  Macey  and  a  few  other  privileged  villagers, 
who  were  allowed  to  be  spectators  on  these  great  occasions, 
were  seated  on  benches  placed  for  them  near  the  door;  and 


320 


SILAS  MARKER. 


great  was  the  admiration  and  satisfaction  in  that  quarter 
when  the  couples  had  formed  themselves  for  the  dance,  and 
the  Squire  led  pff  with  Mrs.  Crackenthorp,  joining  hands  with 
the  Rector  and  Mrs.  Osgood.  That  was  as  it  should  be  — 
that  was  what  everybody  had  been  used  to  —  and  the  charter 
of  Raveloe  seemed  to  be  renewed  by  the  ceremony.  It  was 
not  thought  of  as  an  unbecoming  levity  for  the  old  and 
middle-aged  people  to  dance  a  little  before  sitting  down  to 
cards,  but  rather  as  part  of  their  social  duties.  For  what 
were  these  if  not  to  be  merry  at  appropriate  times,  interchang¬ 
ing  visits  and  poultry  with  due  frequency,  paying  each  other 
old-established  compliments  in  sound  traditional  phrases,  pass¬ 
ing  well-tried  personal  jokes,  urging  your  guests  to  eat  and 
drink  too  much  out  of  hospitality,  and  eating  and  drinking 
too  much  in  your  neighbor’s  house  to  show  that  you  liked 
your  cheer  ?  And  the  parson  naturally  set  an  example  in 
these  social  duties.  For  it  would  not  have  been  possible  for 
the  Raveloe  mind,  without  a  peculiar  revelation,  to  know  that 
a  clergyman  should  be  a  pale-faced  memento  of  solemnities, 
instead  of  a  reasonably  faulty  man  whose  exclusive  authority 
to  read  prayers  and  preach,  to  christen,  marry,  and  bury  you, 
necessarily  co-existed  with  the  right  to  sell  you  the  ground 
to  be  buried  in  and  to  take  tithe  in  kind  ;  on  which  last  point, 
of  course,  there  was  a  little  grumbling,  but  not  to  the  extent 
of  irreligion  —  not  of  deeper  significance  than  the  grumbling 
at  the  rain,  -which  was  by  no  means  accompanied  with  a  spirit 
of  impious  defiance,  but  with  a  desire  that  the  prayer  for  fine 
weather  might  be  read  forthwith. 

There  was  no  reason,  then,  why  the  Rector’s  dancing  should 
not  be  received  as  part  of  the  fitness  of  things  quite  as  much 
as  the  Squire’s,  or  why,  on  the  other  hand,  Mr.  Macey’s  offi¬ 
cial  respect  should  restrain  him  from  subjecting  the  parson’s 
performance  to  that  criticism  with  which  minds  of  extraordi¬ 
nary  acuteness  mast  necessarily  contemplate  the  doings  of 
their  fallible  fellow-men. 

“  The  Squire ’s  pretty  springe,  considering  his  weight,”  said 
Mr.  Macey,  “and  he  stamps  uncommon  well.  But  Mr.  Lam- 
meter  beats  ’em  all  for  shapes  :  you  see  he  holds  his  head  like 


SILAS  MARNER. 


321 


a  sodger,  and  he  is  n’t  so  cushiony  as  most  o’  the  oldish  gentle¬ 
folks  —  they  run  fat  in  general ;  and  he ’s  got  a  fine  leg.  The 
parson ’s  nimble  enough,  but  he  has  n’t  got  much  of  a  leg : 
it ’s  a  bit  too  thick  down’ard,  and  his  knees  might  be  a  bit 
nearer  wi’out  damage ;  but  he  might  do  worse,  he  might  do 
worse.  Though  he  has  n’t  that  grand  way  o’  waving  his  hand 
as  the  Squire  has.” 

Talk  o’  nimbleness,  look  at  Mrs.  Osgood,”  said  Ben  Win- 
throp,  who  was  holding  his  son  Aaron  between  his  knees. 

She  trips  along  with  her  little  steps,  so  as  nobody  can  see 
how  she  goes  —  it ’s  like  as  if  she  had  little  wheels  to  her  feet. 
She  does  n’t  look  a  day  older  nor  last  year :  she ’s  the  finest- 
made  woman  as  is,  let  the  next  be  where  she  will.” 

“  I  don’t  heed  how  the  women  are  made,”  said  Mr.  Macey, 
with  some  contempt.  “  They  wear  nayther  coat  nor  breeches  : 
you  can’t  make  much  out  o’  their  shapes.” 

Fayder,”  said  Aaron,  whose  feet  were  busy  beating  out 
the  tune,  “  how  does  that  big  cock’s-feather  stick  in  Mrs. 
Crackenthorp’s  yead  ?  Is  there  a  little  hole  for  it,  like  in 
my  shuttle-cock  ?  ” 

“  Hush,  lad,  hush ;  that ’s  the  way  the  ladies  dress  their- 
selves,  that  is,”  said  the  father,  adding,  however,  in  an  under¬ 
tone  to  Mr.  Macey,  “  It  does  make  her  look  funny,  though  — 
partly  like  a  short-necked  bottle  wi’  a  long  quill  in  it.  Hey, 
by  jingo,  there ’s  the  young  Squire  leading  off  now,  wi’  Miss 
Nancy  for  partners  !  There ’s  a  lass  for  you  !  — like  a  pink- 
and-white  posy  —  there ’s  nobody  ’ud  think  as  anybody  could 
be  so  pritty.  I  should  n’t  wonder  if  she ’s  Madam  Cass  some 
day,  arter  all  —  and  nobody  more  rightfuller,  for  they ’d  make 
a  fine  match.  You  can  find  nothing  against  Master  Godfrey’s 
shapes,  Macey,  Fll  bet  a  penny.” 

Mr.  Macey  screwed  up  his  mouth,  leaned  his  head  further  on 
one  side,  and  twirled  his  thumbs  with  a  presto  movement  as 
his  eyes  followed  Godfrey  up  the  dance.  At  last  he  summed 
up  his  opinion. 

“  Pretty  well  down’ard,  but  a  bit  too  round  i’  the  shoulder- 
blades.  And  as  for  them  coats  as  he  gets  from  the  Flitton 
tailor,  they  ’re  a  poor  cut  to  pay  double  money  for.” 

TOL.  TI.  21 


822 


SILAS  MARNER. 


“Ah,  Mr.  Macey,  you  and  me  are  two  folks,”  said  Ben, 
slightly  indignant  at  this  carping.  “When  I’ve  got  a  pot  o’, 
good  ale,  I  like  to  s waller  it,  and  do  my  inside  good,  i ’stead  o’ 
smelling  and  staring  at  it  to  see  if  I  can’t  find  faut  wi’  the 
brewing.  I  should  like  you  to  pick  me  out  a  finer-limbed 
young  fellow  nor  Master  Godfrey  —  one  as  ’ud  knock  you 
down  easier,  or ’s  more  pleasanter  looksed  when  he ’s  piert  and 
merry.” 

“  Tchuh  !  ”  said  Mr.  Macey,  provoked  to  increased  severity, 
“he  is  n’t  come  to  his  right  color  yet :  he’s  partly  like  a  slack- 
baked  pie.  And  I  doubt  he ’s  got  a  soft  place  in  his  head,  else 
why  should  he  be  turned  round  the  finger  by  that  offal  Dunsey 
as  nobody ’s  seen  o’  late,  and  let  him  kill  that  fine  hunting  boss 
as  was  the  talk  o’  the  country  ?  And  one  while  he  was  allays 
after  Miss  Nancy,  and  then  it  all  went  off  again,  like  a  smell 
o’  hot  porridge,  as  I  may  say.  That  was  n’t  my  way  when  I 
went  a-coorting.” 

“  Ah,  but  mayhap  Miss  Nancy  hung  off  like,  and  your  lass 
did  n’t,”  said  Ben. 

“  I  should  say  she  did  n’t,”  said  Mr.  Macey,  significantly. 
“Before  I  said  ‘sniff,’  I  took  care  to  know  as  she’d  say 
‘snaff,’  and  pretty  quick  too.  I  wasn’t  a-going  to  open  mr 
mouth,  like  a  dog  at  a  fly,  and  snap  it  to  again,  wi’  nothing  tc 
swaller.” 

“Well,  I  think  Miss  Nancy’s  a-coming  round  again,”  said 
Ben,  “  for  Master  Godfrey  does  n’t  look  so  down-hearted  to¬ 
night.  And  I  see  he ’s  for  taking  her  away  to  sit  down,  now 
they  ’re  at  the  end  o’  the  dance :  that  looks  like  sweethearting, 
that  does.” 

The  reason  why  Godfrey  and  Nancy  had  left  the  dance  was 
not  so  tender  as  Ben  imagined.  In  the  close  press  of  couples 
a  slight  accident  had  happened  to  Nancy’s  dress,  which,  while 
it  was  short  enough  to  show  her  neat  ankle  in  front,  was  long 
enough  behind  to  be  caught  under  the  stately  stamp  of  the 
Squire’s  foot,  so  as  to  rend  certain  stitches  at  the  waist,  and 
cause  much  sisterly  agitation  in  Priscilla’s  mind,  as  well  as 
serious  concern  in  Nancy’s.  One’s  thoughts  may  be  much  oc¬ 
cupied  with  love-struggles,  but  hardly  so  as  to  be  insensible  to 


SILAS  MARNER. 


823 


a  disorder  in  the  general  framework  of  things.  Nancy  had  no 
sooner  completed  her  duty  in  the  figure  they  were  dancing 
than  she  said  to  Godfrey,  with  a  deep  blush,  that  she  must  go 
and  sit  down  till  Priscilla  could  come  to  her ;  for  the  sisters 
had  already  exchanged  a  short  whisper  and  an  open-eyed 
glance  full  of  meaning.  No  reason  less  urgent  than  this  could 
have  prevailed  on  Nancy  to  give  Godfrey  this  opportunity  of 
sitting  apart  with  her.  As  for  Godfrey,  he  was  feeling  so 
happy  and  oblivious  under  the  long  charm  of  the  country-dance 
with  Nancy,  that  he  got  rather  bold  on  the  strength  of  her 
confusion,  and  was  capable  of  leading  her  straight  away,  with¬ 
out  leave  asked,  into  the  adjoining  small  parlor,  where  the 
card-tables  were  set. 

Oh  no,  thank  you,”  said  Nancy,  coldly,  as  soon  as  she  per¬ 
ceived  where  he  was  going,  not  in  there.  I  ’ll  wait  here  till 
Priscilla’s  ready  to  come  to  rac.  I ’m  sorry  to  bring  you  out 
of  the  dance  and  make  myself  troublesome.” 

“  Why,  you  ’ll  be  more  comfortable  here  by  yourself,”  said 
the  artful  Godfrey  :  “  I  ’ll  leave  you  here  till  your  sister  can 
come.”  He  spoke  in  an  indifferent  tone. 

That  was  an  agreeable  proposition,  and  just  what  Nancy 
desired ;  why,  then,  was  she  a  little  hurt  that  Mr.  Godfrey 
should  make  it  ?  They  entered,  and  she  seated  herself  on  a 
chair  against  one  of  the  card-tables,  as  the  stiffest  and  most 
unapproachable  position  she  could  choose. 

“  Thank  you,  sir,”  she  said  immediately.  “  I  need  n’t  give 
you  any  more  trouble.  I ’m  sorry  you ’ve  had  such  an  unlucky 
partner.” 

“  That ’s  very  ill-natured  of  you,”  said  Godfrey,  standing  by 
her  without  any  sign  of  intended  departure,  “  to  be  sorry 
you ’ve  danced  with  me.” 

“  Oh  no,  sir,  I  don’t  mean  to  say  what ’s  ill-natured  at  all,"* 
said  Nancy,  looking  distractingly  prim  and  pretty.  “  When 
gentlemen  have  so  many  pleasures,  one  dance  can  matter  but 
very  little.” 

“  You  know  that  is  n’t  true.  You  know  one  dance  with 
you  matters  more  to  me  than  all  the  other  pleasures  in  the 
world.” 


824 


SILAS  MARNER. 


It  was  a  long,  long  while  since  Godfrey  had  said  anything 
80  direct  as  that,  and  Nancy  was  startled.  But  her  instinctive 
dignity  and  repugnance  to  any  show  of  emotion  made  her  sit 
perfectly  still,  and  only  throw  a  little  more  decision  into  her 
voice,  as  she  said  — 

“  No,  indeed,  Mr.  Godfrey,  that ’s  not  known  to  me,  and 
I  have  very  good  reasons  for  thinking  different.  But  if  it ’s 
true,  I  don’t  wish  to  hear  it,” 

“  Would  you  never  forgive  me,  then,  Nancy  —  never  think 
well  of  me,  let  what  would  happen  —  would  you  never  think 
the  present  made  amends  for  the  past  ?  Not  if  I  turned  a 
good  fellow,  and  gave  up  everything  you  did  n’t  like  ?  ” 

Godfrey  was  half  conscious  that  this  sudden  opportunity  of 
speaking  to  Nancy  alone  had  driven  him  beside  himself ;  but 
blind  feeling  had  got  the  mastery  of  his  tongue.  Nancy  really 
felt  much  agitated  by  the  possibility  Godfrey’s  words  sug¬ 
gested,  but  this  very  pressure  of  emotion  that  she  was  in 
danger  of  finding  too  strong  for  her  roused  all  her  power  of 
self-command. 

“I  should  be  glad  to  see  a  good  change  in  anybody,  Mr. 
Godfrey,”  she  answered,  with  the  slightest  discernible  differ¬ 
ence  of  tone,  “  but  it  ’ud  be  better  if  no  change  was  wanted.” 

“You’re  very  hard-hearted,  Nancy,”  said  Godfrey,  pettishly. 
“You  might  encourage  me  to  be  a  better  fellow.  I ’m  very 
miserable — but  you’ve  no  feeling.” 

“  I  think  those  have  the  least  feeling  that  act  wrong  to 
begin  with,”  said  Nancy,  sending  out  a  flash  in  spite  of  her¬ 
self.  Godfrey  was  delighted  with  that  little  flash,  and  would 
have  liked  to  go  on  and  make  her  quarrel  with  him ;  Nancy 
was  so  exasperatingly  quiet  and  firm.  But  she  was  not  in¬ 
different  to  him  yet. 

The  entrance  of  Priscilla,  bustling  forward  and  saying, 
“Dear  heart  alive,  child,  let  us  look  at  this  gown,”  cut  off 
Godfrey’s  hopes  of  a  quarrel. 

“  I  suppose  I  must  go  now,”  he  said  to  Priscilla. 

“  It ’s  no  matter  to  me  whether  you  go  or  stay,”  said  that 
frank  lady,  searching  for  something  in  her  pocket,  with  a 
preoccupied  brow. 


SILAS  MARNER.  825 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  go  ?  ”  said  Godfrey,  looking  at  Nancy, 
who  was  now  standing  up  by  Priscilla’s  order. 

‘‘  As  you  like,”  said  Nancy,  trying  to  recover  all  her  former 
coldness,  and  looking  down  carefully  at  the  hem  of  her  gown. 

‘‘  Then  I  like  to  stay,”  said  Godfrey,  with  a  reckless  deter¬ 
mination  to  get  as  much  of  this  joy  as  he  could  to-night,  and 
think  nothing  of  the  morrow. 


♦ 


CHAPTER  XII. 

While  Godfrey  Cass  was  taking  draughts  of  forgetfulness 
from  the  sweet  presence  of  Nancy,  willingly  losing  all  sense  of 
that  hidden  bond  which  at  other  moments  galled  and  fretted 
him  so  as  to  mingle  irritation  with  the  very  sunshine,  God¬ 
frey’s  wife  was  walking  with  slow  uncertain  steps  through  the 
snow-covered  Raveloe  lanes,  carrying  her  child  in  her  arms. 

This  journey  on  New  Year’s  Eve  was  a  premeditated  act  of 
vengeance  which  she  had  kept  in  her  heart  ever  since  Godfrey, 
in  a  fit  of  passion,  had  told  her  he  would  sooner  die  than  ac-. 
knowledge  her  as  his  wife.  There  would  be  a  great  party  at 
the  Red  House  on  New  Year’s  Eve,  she  knew :  her  husband 
would  be  smiling  and  smiled  upon,  hiding  her  existence  in  the 
darkest  corner  of  his  heart.  But  she  would  mar  his  pleasure  : 
she  would  go  in  her  dingy  rags,  with  her  faded  face,  once  as 
handsome  as  the  best,  with  her  little  child  that  had  its  father’s 
hair  and  eyes,  and  disclose  herself  to  the  Squire  as  his  eldest 
son’s  wife.  It  is  seldom  that  the  miserable  can  help  regard¬ 
ing  their  misery  as  a  wrong  inflicted  by  those  who  are  less 
miserable.  Molly  knew  that  the  cause  of  her  dingy  rags  was 
not  her  husband’s  neglect,  but  the  demon  Opium  to  whom  she 
was  enslaved,  body  and  soul,  except  in  the  lingering  mother's 
tenderness  that  refused  to  give  him  her  hungry  child.  She 
knew  this  well ;  and  yet,  in  the  moments  of  wretched  unbe¬ 
numbed  consciousness,  the  sense  of  her  want  and  degradation 


326 


SILAS  MARNER. 


transformed  itself  continually  into  bitterness  towards  Godfrey, 
He  was  well  off ;  and  if  she  had  her  rights  she  would  be  well 
off  too.  The  belief  that  he  repented  his  marriage,  and  suf¬ 
fered  from  it,  only  aggravated  her  vindictiveness.  Just  and 
self-reproving  thoughts  do  not  come  to  us  too  thickly,  even  in 
the  purest  air  and  with  the  best  lessons  of  heaven  and  earth ; 
how  should  those  white-winged  delicate  messengers  make  their 
way  to  Molly’s  poisoned  chamber,  inhabited  by  no  higher 
memories  than  those  of  a  barmaid’s  paradise  of  pink  ribbons 
and  gentlemen’s  jokes  ? 

She  had  set  out  at  an  early  hour,  but  had  lingered  on  the 
road,  inclined  by  her  indolence  to  believe  that  if  she  waited 
under  a  warm  shed  the  snow  would  cease  to  fall.  She  had 
^waited  longer  than  she  knew,  and  now  that  she  found  herself 
belated  in  the  snow-hidden  ruggedness  of  the  long  lanes,  even 
the  animation  of  a  vindictive  purpose  could  not  keep  her  spirit 
from  failing.  It  was  seven  o’clock,  and  by  this  time  she  was 
not  very  far  from  Eaveloe,  but  she  was  not  familiar  enough 
with  those  monotonous  lanes  to  know  how  near  she  was  to 
her  journey’s  end.  She  needed  comfort,  and  she  knew  but 
one  comforter  —  the  familiar  demon  in  her  bosom ;  but  she 
hesitated  a  moment,  after  drawing  out  the  black  remnant,  be¬ 
fore  she  raised  it  to  her  lips.  In  that  moment  the  mother’s 
love  pleaded  for  painful  consciousness  rather  than  oblivion  — . 
pleaded  to  be  left  in  aching  weariness,  rather  than  to  have 
the  encircling  arms  benumbed  so  that  they  could  not  feel  the 
dear  burden.  In  another  moment  Molly  had  flung  something 
away,  but  it  was  not  the  black  remnant  —  it  was  an  empty 
phial.  And  she  walked  on  again  under  the  breaking  cloud, 
from  which  there  came  now  and  then  the  light  of  a  quickly 
veiled  star,  for  a  freezing  wind  had  sprung  up  since  the 
snowing  had  ceased.  But  she  walked  always  more  and  more 
drowsily,  and  clutched  more  and  more  automatically  the  sleep¬ 
ing  child  at  her  bosom. 

Slowly  the  demon  was  working  his  will,  and  cold  and  weari¬ 
ness  were  his  helpers.  Soon  she  felt  nothing  but  a  supreme 
immediate  longing  that  curtained  off  all  futurity  —  the  long¬ 
ing  to  lie  down  and  sleep.  She  had  arrived  at  a  spot  where 


SILAS  MARNER. 


827 


her  footsteps  were  no  longer  checked  by  a  hedgerow,  and  she 
had  wandered  vaguely,  unable  to  distinguish  any  objects,  not¬ 
withstanding  the  wide  whiteness  around  her,  and  the  growing 
starlight.  She  sank  down  against  a  straggling  furze  bush,  an 
easy  pillow  enough ;  and  the  bed  of  snow,  too,  was  soft.  She 
did  not  feel  that  the  bed  was  cold,  and  did  not  heed  whether 
the  child  would  wake  and  cry  for  her.  But  her  arms  had  not 
yet  relaxed  their  instinctive  clutch ;  and  the  little  one  slum¬ 
bered  on  as  gently  as  if  it  had  been  rocked  in  a  lace-trimmed 
cradle. 

But  the  complete  torpor  came  at  last :  the  fingers  lost  their 
tension,  the  arms  unbent ;  then  the  little  head  fell  away  from 
the  bosom,  and  the  blue  eyes  opened  wide  on  the  cold  star¬ 
light.  At  first  there  was  a  little  peevish  cry  of  “mammy,” 
and  an  effort  to  regain  the  pillowing  arm  and  bosom ;  but 
mammy’s  ear  was  deaf,  and  the  pillow  seemed  to  be  slipping 
away  backward.  Suddenly,  as  the  child  rolled  downward  on 
its  mother’s  knees,  all  wet  with  snow,  its  eyes  were  caught 
by  0.  bright  glancing  light  on  the  white  ground,  and,  with  the 
ready  transition  of  infancy,  it  was  immediately  absorbed  in 
watching  the  bright  living  thing  running  towards  it,  yet  never 
arriving.  That  bright  living  thing  must  be  caught;  and  in  an 
instant  the  child  had  slipped  on  all  fours,  and  held  out  one 
little  hand  to  catch  the  gleam.  But  the  gleam  would  not  be 
caught  in  that  way,  and  now  the  head  was  held  up  to  see 
where  the  cunning  gleam  came  from.  It  came  from  a  very 
bright  place ;  and  the  little  one,  rising  on  its  legs,  toddled 
through  the  snow,  the  old  grimy  shawl  in  which  it  was 
wrapped  trailing  behind  it,  and  the  queer  little  bonnet  dan¬ 
gling  at  its  back — toddled  on  to  the  open  door  of  Silas  Marner’s 
cottage,  and  right  up  to  the  warm  hearth,  where  there  was  a 
bright  fire  of  logs  and  sticks,  which  had  thoroughly  warmed 
the  old  sack  (Silas’s  greatcoat)  spread  out  on  the  bricks  to  dry. 
The  little  one,  accustomed  to  be  left  to  itself  for  long  hours 
without  notice  from  its  mother,  squatted  down  on  the  sack, 
and  spread  its  tiny  hands  towards  the  blaze,  in  perfect  con¬ 
tentment,  gurgling  and  making  many  inarticulate  communica¬ 
tions  to  the  cheerful  fire,  like  a  new-hatched  gosling  beginning 


328 


SILAS  MARNER. 


to  find  itself  comfortable.  But  presently  the  warmth  had  a 
lulling  effect,  and  the  little  golden  head  sank  down  on  the 
old  sack,  and  the  blue  eyes  were  veiled  by  their  delicate  half¬ 
transparent  lids. 

But  where  was  Silas  Marner  while  this  strange  visitor  had 
come  to  his  hearth  ?  He  was  in  the  cottage,  but  he  did  not 
see  the  child.  During  the  last  few  weeks,  since  he  had  lost 
his  money,  he  had  contracted  the  habit  of  opening  his  door 
and  looking  out  from  time  to  time,  as  if  he  thought  that  his 
money  might  be  somehow  coming  back  to  him,  or  that  some 
trace,  some  news  of  it,  might  be  mysteriously  on  the  road,  and 
be  caught  by  the  listening  ear  or  the  straining  eye.  It  was 
chiefly  at  night,  when  he  was  not  occupied  in  his  loom,  that 
he  fell  into  this  repetition  of  an  act  for  which  he  could  have 
assigned  no  definite  purpose,  and  which  can  hardly  be  under¬ 
stood  except  by  those  who  have  undergone  a  bewildering 
separation  from  a  supremely  loved  object.  In  the  evening 
twilight,  and  later  whenever  the  night  was  not  dark,  Silas 
looked  out  on  that  narrow  prospect  round  the  Stone-pits,  lis¬ 
tening  and  gazing,  not  with  hope,  but  with  mere  yearning  and 
unrest. 

This  morning  he  had  been  told  by  some  of  his  neighbors 
that  it  was  New  Year’s  Eve,  and  that  he  must  sit  up  and  hear 
the  old  year  rung  out  and  the  new  rung  in,  because  that  was 
good  luck,  and  might  bring  his  money  back  again.  This  was 
only  a  friendly  Raveloe-way  of  jesting  with  the  half-crazy 
oddities  of  a  miser,  but  it  had  perhaps  helped  to  throw  Silas 
into  a  more  than  usually  excited  state.  Since  the  on-coming 
of  twilight  he  had  opened  his  door  again  and  again,  though 
only  to  shut  it  immediately  at  seeing  all  distance  veiled  by 
the  falling  snow.  But  the  last  time  he  opened  it  the  snow 
had  ceased,  and  the  clouds  were  parting  here  and  there.  He 
stood  and  listened,  and  gazed  for  a  long  while — there  was 
really  something  on  the  road  coming  towards  him  then,  but 
he  caught  no  sign  of  it;  and  the  stillness  and  the  wide  track¬ 
less  snow  seemed  to  narrow  his  solitude,  and  touched  his 
yearning  with  the  chill  of  despair.  He  went  in  again,  and 
put  his  right  hand  on  the  latch  of  the  door  to  close  it  —  but 


SILAS  MARNER. 


829 


he  did  not  close  it :  he  was  arrested,  as  he  had  been  already 
since  his  loss,  by  the  invisible  wand  of  catalepsy,  and  stood 
like  a  graven  image,  with  wide  but  sightless  eyes,  holding 
open  his  door,  powerless  to  resist  either  the  good  or  evil  that 
might  enter  there. 

When  Marner’s  sensibility  returned,  he  continued  the  action 
which  had  been  arrested,  and  closed  his  door,  unaware  of  the 
chasm  in  his  consciousness,  unaware  of  any  intermediate 
change,  except  that  the  light  had  grown  dim,  and  that  he  was 
chilled  and  faint.  He  thought  he  had  been  too  long  standing 
at  the  door  and  looking  out.  Turning  towards  the  hearth, 
where  the  two  logs  had  fallen  apart,  and  sent  forth  only  a  red 
uncertain  glimmer,  he  seated  himself  on  his  fireside  chair,  and 
was  stooping  io  push  his  logs  together,  when,  to  his  blurred 
vision,  it  seemed  as  if  there  were  gold  on  the  floor  in  front  of 
the  hearth.  Gold!  —  his  own  gold  —  brought  back  to  him  as 
mysteriously  as  it  had  been  taken  away  1  He  felt  his  heart 
begin  to  beat  violently,  and  for  a  few  moments  he  was  unable 
to  stretch  out  his  hand  and  grasp  the  restored  treasure.  The 
heap  of  gold  seemed  to  glow  and  get  larger  beneath  his  agitated 
gaze.  He  leaned  forward  at  last,  and  stretched  forth  his  hand; 
but  instead  of  the  hard  coin  with  the  familiar  resisting  outline, 
his  fingers  encountered  soft  warm  curls.  In  utter  amazement, 
Silas  fell  on  his  knees  and  bent  his  head  low  to  examine  tlie 
marvel :  it  was  a  sleeping  child  —  a  round,  fair  thing,  with 
soft  yellow  rings  all  over  its  head.  Could  this  be  his  little 
sister  come  back  to  him  in  a  dream — his  little  sister  whom 
he  had  carried  about  in  his  arms  for  a  year  before  she  died, 
when  he  was  a  small  boy  without  shoes  or  stockings  ?  That 
was  the  first  thought  that  darted  across  Silas’s  blank  wonder¬ 
ment.  Was  it  a  dream  ?  He  rose  to  his  feet  again,  pushed 
his  logs  together,  and,  throwing  on  some  dried  leaves  and 
sticks,  raised  a  flame;  but  the  flame  did  not  disperse  the 
vision  —  it  only  lit  up  more  distinctly  the  little  round  form  of 
the  child,  and  its  shabby  clothing.  It  was  very  much  like  his 
little  sister.  Silas  sank  into  his  chair  powerless,  under  the 
double  presence  of  an  inexplicable  surprise  and  a  hurrying 
influx  of  memories.  How  and  when  had  the  child  come  in 


330 


SILAS  MARNER. 


without  his  knowledge  ?  He  had  never  been  beyond  the  door. 
But  along  with  that  question,  and  almost  thrusting  it  away, 
there  was  a  vision  of  the  old  home  and  the  old  streets  leading 
to  Lantern  Yard  —  and  within  that  vision  another,  of  the 
thoughts  which  had  been  present  with  him  in  those  far-off 
scenes.  The  thoughts  were  strange  to  him  now,  like  old 
friendships  impossible  to  revive ;  and  yet  he  had  a  dreamy 
feeling  that  this  child  was  somehow  a  message  come  to  him 
from  that  far-off  life :  it  stirred  fibres  that  had  never  been 
moved  in  Raveloe  —  old  quiverings  of  tenderness  —  old  im¬ 
pressions  of  awe  at  the  presentiment  of  some  Power  presiding 
over  his  life ;  for  his  imagination  had  not  yet  extricated  itself 
from  the  sense  of  mystery  in  the  child’s  sudden  presence,  and 
had  formed  no  conjectures  of  ordinary  natural  means  by  which 
the  event  could  have  been  brought  about. 

But  there  was  a  cry  on  the  hearth :  the  child  had  awaked, 
and  Marner  stooped  to  lift  it  on  his  knee.  It  clung  round  his 
neck,  and  burst  louder  and  louder  into  that  mingling  of  inar¬ 
ticulate  cries  with  “  mammy  ”  by  which  little  children  express 
the  bewilderment  of  waking.  Silas  pressed  it  to  him,  and 
almost  unconsciously  uttered  sounds  of  hushing  tenderness, 
while  he  bethought  himself  that  some  of  his  porridge,  which 
had  got  cool  by  the  dying  fire,  would  do  to  feed  the  child  with 
if  it  were  only  warmed  up  a  little. 

He  had  plenty  to  do  through  the  next  hour.  The  porridge, 
sweetened  with  some  dry  brown  sugar  from  an  old  store  which 
he  had  refrained  from  using  for  himself,  stopped  the  cries  of 
the  little  one,  and  made  her  lift  her  blue  eyes  with  a  wide 
quiet  gaze  at  Silas,  as  he  put  the  spoon  into  her  mouth.  Pres¬ 
ently  she  slipped  from  his  knee  and  began  to  toddle  about, 
but  with  a  pretty  stagger  that  made  Silas  jump  up  and  follow 
her  lest  she  should  fall  against  anything  that  would  hurt  her. 
But  slie  only  fell  in  a  sitting  posture  on  the  ground,  and  began 
to  pull  at  her  boots,  looking  up  at  him  with  a  crying  face  as 
if  the  boots  hurt  her.  He  took  her  on  his  knee  again,  but  it 
was  some  time  before  it  occurred  to  Silas’s  dull  bachelor  mind 
that  the  wet  boots  were  the  grievance,  pressing  on  her  warm 
ankles.  He  got  them  off  with  difficulty,  and  baby  was  at  once 


SILAS  MARNER. 


SCI 

happily  occupied  with  the  primary  mystery  of  her  own  toe5, 
inviting  Silas,  with  much  chuckling,  to  consider  the  mystery 
too.  But  the  wet  boots  had  at  last  suggested  to  Silas  that  the 
child  had  been  walking  on  the  snow,  and  this  roused  him  from 
his  entire  oblivion  of  any  ordinary  means  by  which  it  could 
have  entered  or  been  brought  into  his  house.  Under  the 
prompting  of  this  new  idea,  and  without  waiting  to  form  con¬ 
jectures,  he  raised  the  child  in  his  arms,  and  went  to  the  door. 
As  soon  as  he  had  opened  it,  there  was  the  cry  of  “  mammy  ” 
again,  which  Silas  had  not  heard  since  the  child’s  first  hungry 
waking.  Bending  forward,  he  could  just  discern  the  marks 
made  by  the  little  feet  on  the  virgin  snow,  and  he  followed 
their  track  to  the  furze  bushes.  Mammy  !  ”  the  little  one 
cried  again  and  again,  stretching  itself  forward  so  as  almost 
to  escape  from  Silas’s  arms,  before  he  himself  was  aware  that 
there  was  something  more  than  the  bush  before  him  —  that 
there  was  a  human  body,  with  the  head  sunk  low  in  the  furze, 
and  half-covered  with  the  shaken  snow. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

It  was  after  the  early  supper-time  at  the  Red  House,  and 
the  entertainment  was  in  that  stage  when  bashfulness  itself 
had  passed  into  easy  jollity,  when  gentlemen,  conscious  of 
unusual  accomplishments,  could  at  length  be  prevailed  on  to 
dance  a  hornpipe,  and  when  the  Squire  preferred  talking 
loudly,  scattering  snuff,  and  patting  his  visitors’  backs,  to 
sitting  longer  at  the  whist-table  —  a  choice  exasperating  to 
uncle  Kimble,  who,  being  always  volatile  in  sober  business 
hours,  became  intense  and  bitter  over  cards  and  brandy, 
shuffled  before  his  adversary’s  deal  with  a  glare  of  suspicion, 
and  turned  up  a  mean  trump-card  with  an  air  of  inexpressible 
disgust,  as  if  in  a  world  where  such  things  could  happen  one 
might  as  well  enter  on  a  course  of  reckless  profligacy.  When 


332 


SILAS  MARNER. 


the  evening  had  advanced  to  this  pitch  of  freedom  and  enjoy, 
ment,  it  was  usual  for  the  servants,  the  heavy  duties  of  supper 
being  well  over,  to  get  their  share  of  amusement  by  coming 
to  look  on  at  the  dancing;  so  that  the  back  regions  of  the 
house  were  left  in  solitude. 

There  were  two  doors  by  which  the  White  Parlor  was  en¬ 
tered  from  the  hall,  and  they  were  both  standing  open  for  the 
sake  of  air ;  but  the  lower  one  was  crowded  with  the  servants 
and  villagers,  and  only  the  upper  doorway  was  left  free.  Bob 
Cass  was  figuring  in  a  hornpipe,  and  his  father,  very  proud 
of  this  lithe  son,  whom  he  repeatedly  declared  to  be  just  like 
himself  in  his  young  days  in  a  tone  that  implied  this  to  be 
the  very  highest  stamp  of  juvenile  merit,  was  the  centre  of  a 
group  who  had  placed  themselves  opposite  the  performer,  not 
far  from  the  upper  door.  Godfrey  was  standing  a  little  way 
off,  not  to  admire  his  brother’s  dancing,  but  to  keep  sight  of 
Nancy,  who  was  seated  in  the  group,  near  her  father.  He 
stood  aloof,  because  he  wished  to  avoid  suggesting  himself  as 
a  subject  for  the  Squire’s  fatherly  jokes  in  connection  with 
matrimony  and  Miss  Nancy  Lammeter’s  beauty,  which  were 
likely  to  become  more  and  more  explicit.  But  he  had  the 
prospect  of  dancing  with  her  again  when  the  hornpipe  was 
concluded,  and  in  the  meanwhile  it  was  very  pleasant  to  get 
long  glances  at  her  quite  unobserved. 

But  when  Godfrey  was  lifting  his  eyes  from  one  of  those 
long  glances,  they  encountered  an  object  as  startling  to  him 
at  that  moment  as  if  it  had  been  an  apparition  from  the  dead. 
It  ivas  an  apparition  from  that  hidden  life  which  lies,  like  a 
dark  by-street,  behind  the  goodly  ornamented  facade  that 
meets  the  sunlight  and  the  gaze  of  respectable  admirers.  It 
was  his  own  child  carried  in  Silas  Marner’s  arms.  That  was 
his  instantaneous  impression,  unaccompanied  by  doubt,  though 
he  had  not  seen  the  child  for  months  past ;  and  when  the 
hope  was  rising  that  he  might  possibly  be  mistaken,  Mr. 
Crackentborp  and  Mr.  Lammeter  had  already  advanced  to 
Silas,  in  astonishment  at  this  strange  advent.  Godfrey  joined 
them  immediately,  unable  to  rest  without  hearing  every  word 
—  tr3dng  to  control  himself,  but  conscious  that  if  any  one 


SILAS  MARNER.  333 

noticed  him,  they  must  see  that  he  was  white-lipped  and 
trembling. 

But  now  all  eyes  at  that  end  of  the  room  were  bent  on  Silaa 
Marner;  the  Squire  himself  had  risen,  and  asked  angrily, 
“  How ’s  this  ?  —  what ’s  this  ?  —  what  do  you  do  coming  in 
here  in  this  way  ?  ” 

‘‘  I ’m  come  for  the  doctor  —  I  want  the  doctor,”  Silas  had 
said,  in  the  first  moment,  to  Mr.  Crackenthorp. 

“  Why,  what ’s  the  matter,  Marner  ?  ”  said  the  Rector.  “  The 
doctor ’s  here  ;  but  say  quietly  what  you  want  him  for.” 

“  It ’s  a  woman,”  said  Silas,  speaking  low,  and  half-breath- 
lessly,  just  as  Godfrey  came  up.  “  She ’s  dead,  I  think  — 
dead  in  the  snow  at  the  Stone-pits  —  not  far  from  my  door.” 

Godfrey  felt  a  great  throb:  there  was  one  terror  in  his 
mind  at  that  moment :  it  was,  that  the  woman  might  not  be 
dead.  That  was  an  evil  terror  —  an  ugly  inmate  to  have 
found  a  nestling-place  in  Godfrey’s  kindly  disposition;  but 
no  disposition  is  a  security  from  evil  wishes  to  a  man  whose 
happiness  hangs  on  duplicity. 

“  Hush,  hush  !  ”  said  Mr.  Crackenthorp.  “  Go  out  into  the 
hall  there.  I’ll  fetch  the  doctor  to  you.  Found  a  woman  in 
the  snow  —  and  thinks  she ’s  dead,”  he  added,  speaking  low, 
to  the  Squire.  “  Better  say  as  little  about  it  as  possible  :  it 
will  shock  the  ladies.  Just  tell  them  a  poor  woman  is  ill  from 
cold  and  hunger.  I  ’ll  go  and  fetch  Kimble.” 

By  this  time,  however,  the  ladies  had  pressed  forward, 
curious  to  know  what  could  have  brought  the  solitary  linen- 
weaver  there  under  such  strange  circumstances,  and  inter¬ 
ested  in  the  pretty  child,  who,  half  alarmed  and  half 
attracted  by  the  brightness  and  the  numerous  company,  now 
frowned  and  hid  her  face,  now  lifted  up  her  head  again  and 
looked  round  placably,  until  a  touch  or  a  coaxing  word 
brought  back  the  frown,  and  made  her  bury  her  face  with 
new  determination. 

“  What  child  is  it  ?  ”  said  several  ladies  at  once,  and,  among 
the  rest,  Nancy  Lammeter,  addi'essing  Godfrey. 

“I  don’t  know  —  some  poor  woman’s  who  has  been  found 
in  the  snow,  I  believe,’’  was  the  answer  Godfrey  wrung  from 


334 


SILAS  MARNER. 


himself  with  a  terrible  effort.  (“  After  all,  am  I  certain  ?  ”  he 
hastened. to  add,  in  anticipation  of  his  own  conscience.) 

“  Why,  you ’d  better  leave  the  child  here,  then.  Master 
Marner,”  said  good-natured  Mrs.  Kimble,  hesitating,  however, 
to  take  those  dingy  clothes  into  contact  with  her  own  orna¬ 
mented  satin  bodice.  I  ’ll  tell  one  o’  the  girls  to  fetch  it.” 

No  —  no  —  I  can’t  part  with  it,  I  can’t  let  it  go,”  said  Silas, 
abruptly.  “  It ’s  come  to  me  —  I ’ve  a  right  to  keep  it.” 

The  proposition  to  take  the  child  from  him  had  come  to 
Silas  quite  unexpectedly,  and  his  speech,  uttered  under  a 
strong  sudden  impulse,  was  almost  like  a  revelation  to  him¬ 
self  :  a  minute  before,  he  had  no  distinct  intention  about  the 
child. 

“  Did  you  ever  hear  the  like  ?  ”  said  Mrs.  Kimble,  in  mild 
surprise,  to  her  neighbor. 

‘‘Now,  ladies,  I  must  trouble  you  to  stand  aside,”  said  Mr. 
Kimble,  coming  from  tUe  card-room,  in  some  bitterness  at  the 
interruption,  but  drilled  by  the  long  habit  of  his  profession 
into  obedience  to  unpleasant  calls,  even  when  he  was  hardly 
sober. 

“  It ’s  a  nasty  business  turning  out  now,  eh,  Kimble  ?  ”  said 
the  Squire.  “He  might  ha’  gone  for  your  young  fellow  —  the 
’prentice,  there  —  what ’s  his  name  ?  ” 

“  Might  ?  ay  —  what ’s  the  use  of  talking  about  might  ?  ” 
growled  uncle  Kimble,  hastening  out  with  Marner,  and  followed 
by  Mr.  Crackenthorp  and  Godfrey.  “  Get  me  a  pair  of  thick 
boots,  Godfrey,  will  you  ?  And  stay,  let  somebody  run  to 
Winthrop’s  and  fetch  Dolly  —  she’s  the  best  woman  to  get. 
Ben  was  here  himself  before  supper ;  is  he  gone  ?  ” 

“Yes,  sir,  I  met  him,”  said  Marner;  “but  I  couldn’t  stop 
to  tell  him  anything,  only  I  said  I  was  going  for  the  doctor, 
and  he  said  the  doctor  was  at  the  Squire’s.  And  I  made  haste 
and  ran,  and  there  was  nobody  to  be  seen  at  the  back  o’  the 
house,  and  so  I  went  in  to  where  the  company  was.” 

The  child,  no  longer  distracted  by  the  bright  light  and  the 
smiling  women’s  faces,  began  to  cry  and  call  for  “  mammy,” 
though  always  clinging  to  Marner,  who  had  apparently  won 
her  thorough  conhdence.  Godfrey  had  come  back  with  the 


SILAS  MARNEK.  335 

boots,  and  felt  the  cry  as  if  some  fibre  were  drawn  tight  within 
him. 

“  I  ’ll  go,”  he  said,  hastily,  eager  for  some  movement ;  “  I  ’ll 
go  and  fetch  the  woman  —  Mrs.  Winthrop.” 

“  Oh,  pooh  —  send  somebody  else,”  said  uncle  Kimble,  hurry¬ 
ing  away  with  Marner. 

“  You’ll  let  me  know  if  I  can  be  of  any  use,  Kimble,”  said 
Mr.  Crackenthorp.  But  the  doctor  was  out  of  hearing. 

Godfrey,  too,  had  disappeared  :  he  was  gone  to  snatch  his 
hat  and  coat,  having  just  reflection  enough  to  remember  that 
he  must  not  look  like  a  madman ;  but  he  rushed  out  of  the 
house  into  the  snow  without  heeding  his  thin  shoes. 

In  a  few  minutes  he  was  on  his  rapid  way  to  the  Stone-pits 
by  the  side  of  Dolly,  who,  though  feeling  that  she  was  entirely 
in  her  place  in  encountering  cold  and  snow  on  an  errand  of 
mercy,  was  much  concerned  at  a  young  gentleman’s  getting 
his  feet  wet  under  a  like  impulse. 

“  You’d  a  deal  better  go  back,  sir,”  said  Dolly,  with  respect¬ 
ful  compassion.  “  You  ’ve  no  call  to  catch  cold ;  and  1  ’d  ask 
you  if  you ’d  be  so  good  as  tell  my  husband  to  come,  on  your 
way  back  —  he ’s  at  the  Rainbow,  I  doubt  —  if  you  found  him 
anyway  sober  enough  to  be  o’  use.  Or  else,  there ’s  Mrs.  Snell 
’ud  happen  send  the  boy  up  to  fetch  and  carry,  for  there  may 
be  things  wanted  from  the  doctor’s.” 

“No,  I  ’ll  stay,  now  I ’m  once  out  — I  ’ll  stay  outside  here,” 
said  Godfrey,  when  they  came  opposite  Marner’s  cottage. 
“You  can  come  and  tell  me  if  I  can  do  anything.” 

“  Well,  sir,  you  ’re  very  good :  you ’ve  a  tender  heart,”  said 
Dolly,  going  to  the  door. 

Godfrey  was  too  painfully  preoccupied  to  feel  a  twinge  of 
self-reproach  at  this  undeserved  praise.  He  walked  up  and 
down,  unconscious  that  he  was  plunging  ankle-deep  in  snow, 
unconscious  of  everything  but  trembling  suspense  about  what 
was  going  on  in  the  cottage,  and  the  effect  of  each  alternative 
on  his  future  lot.  No,  not  quite  unconscious  of  everything 
else.  Deeper  down,  and  half-smothered  by  passionate  desire 
and  dread,  there  was  the  sense  that  he  ought  not  to  be  waiting 
on  these  alternatives ;  that  he  ought  to  accept  the  consequences 


336 


SILAS  MARNER. 


of  hig  deeds,  own  the  miserable  wife,  and  fulfil  the  claims  of 
the  helpless  child.  But  he  had  not  moral  courage  enough  to 
contemplate  that  active  renunciation  of  Nancy  as  possible 
for  him:  he  had  only  conscience  and  heart  enough  to  make 
him  forever  uneasy  under  the  weakness  that  forbade  the  re¬ 
nunciation.  And  at  this  moment  his  mind  leaped  away  from 
all  restraint  towards  the  sudden  prospect  of  deliverance  from 
his  long  bondage. 

“  Is  she  dead  ?  ”  said  the  voice  that  predominated  over  every 
other  within  him.  If  she  is,  I  may  marry  Nancy  ;  and  then 
I  shall  be  a  good  fellow  in  future,  and  have  no  secrets,  and 
the  child  —  shall  be  taken  care  of  somehow.”  But  across  that 
vision  came  the  other  possibility  — She  may  live,  and  then 
it ’s  all  up  with  me.” 

Godfrey  never  knew  how  long  it  was  before  the  door  of  the 
cottage  opened  and  Mr.  Kimble  came  out.  He  went  forward 
to  meet  his  uncle,  prepared  to  suppress  the  agitation  he  must 
feel,  whatever  news  he  was  to  hear. 

“I  waited  for  you,  as  I’d  come  so  far,”  he  said,  speaking 
first. 

“  Pooh,  it  was  nonsense  for  you  to  come  out :  why  did  n’t 
you  send  one  of  the  men  ?  There ’s  nothing  to  be  done.  She ’s 
dead  —  has  been  dead  for  hours,  I  should  say.” 

“  What  sort  of  woman  is  she  ?  ”  said  Godfrey,  feeling  the 
blood  rush  to  his  face. 

‘‘A  young  woman,  but  emaciated,  with  long  black  hair. 
Some  vagrant  —  quite  in  rags.  She’s  got  a  wedding-ring  on, 
however.  They  must  fetch  her  away  to  the  workhouse  to¬ 
morrow.  Come,  come  along.” 

“  I  want  to  look  at  her,”  said  Godfrey.  “  I  think  I  saw 
such  a  woman  yesterday.  I  ’ll  overtake  you  in  a  minute  or 
two.” 

Mr.  Kimble  went  on,  and  Godfrey  turned  back  to  the  cot¬ 
tage.  He  cast  only  one  glance  at  the  dead  face  on  the  pillow, 
which  Dolly  had  smoothed  with  decent  care ;  but  he  remem¬ 
bered  that  last  look  at  his  unhappy  hated  wife  so  well,  that  at 
the  end  of  sixteen  years  every  line  in  the  worn  face  was  pres¬ 
ent  to  him  when  he  told  the  full  story  of  this  night. 


SILAS  MARNER. 


837 


He  turned  immediately  towards  the  hearth,  where  Silas 
Marner  sat  lulling  the  child.  She  was  perfectly  quiet  now, 
but  not  asleep  —  only  soothed  by  sweet  porridge  and  warmth 
into  that  wide-gazing  calm  which  makes  us  older  human  beings, 
with  our  inward  turmoil,  feel  a  certain  awe  in  the  presence  of 
a  little  child,  such  as  we  feel  before  some  quiet  majesty  or 
beauty  in  the  earth  or  sky  —  before  a  steady  glowing  planet, 
or  a  full-flowered  eglantine,  or  the  bending  trees  over  a  silent 
pathway.  The  wide-open  blue  eyes  looked  up  at  Godfrey’s 
without  any  uneasiness  or  sign  of  recognition  :  the  child  could 
make  no  visible  audible  claim  on  its  father ;  and  the  father 
felt  a  strange  mixture  of  feelings,  a  conflict  of  regret  avid  joy, 
that  the  pulse  of  that  little  heart  had  no  response  for  the  half- 
jealous  yearning  in  his  own,  when  the  blue  eyes  turned  away 
from  him  slowly,  and  fixed  themselves  on  the  weaver’s  queer 
face,  which  was  bent  low  down  to  look  at  them,  while  the 
small  hand  began  to  pull  Marner’s  withered  cheek  with  loving 
disfiguration. 

“You’ll  take  the  child  to  the  parish  to-morrow?’’  asked 
Godfrey,  speaking  as  indifferently  as  he  could. 

“  Who  says  so  ?  ”  said  Marner,  sharply.  “  Will  they  make 
me  take  her  ?  ” 

“  Why,  you  would  n’t  like  to  keep  her,  should  you  —  an  old 
bachelor  like  you  ?  ” 

“  Till  anybody  shows  they ’ve  a  right  to  take  her  away 
from  me,”  said  Marner.  “The  mother’s  dead,  and  I  reckon 
it ’s  got  no  father  :  it ’s  a  lone  thing  —  and  I ’m  a  lone  thing. 
My^  money ’s  gone,  I  don’t  know  where  —  and  this  is  come 
from  I  don’t  know  where.  I  know  nothing  —  I ’m  partly 
mazed.” 

“Poor  little  thing  !”  said  Godfrey.  “Let  me  give  something 
towards  finding  it  clothes.” 

He  had  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and  found  half-a-guinea, 
and,  thrusting  it  into  Silas’s  hand,  he  hurried  out  of  the  cottage 
to  overtake  Mr.  Kimble. 

“  Ah,  I  see  it ’s  not  the  same  woman  I  saw,”  he  said,  as  he 
came  up.  “  It ’s  a  pretty^  little  child:  the  old  fellow  seems  to 
want  to  keep  it ;  that ’s  strange  for  a  miser  like  him.  But  I 

22 


VOL.  VI 


338 


SILAS  MAKNER. 


gave  hiin  a  trifle  to  help  him  out :  the  parish  is  n’t  likely  to 
quarrel  with  him  for  the  right  to  keep  the  child.” 

“  hro  ;  but  I ’ve  seen  the  time  when  I  might  have  quarrelled 
with  him  for  it  myself.  It ’s  too  late  now,  though.  If  the 
child  ran  into  the  fire,  your  aunt ’s  too  fat  to  overtake  it :  she 
could  only  sit  and  grunt  like  an  alarmed  sow.  But  what  a 
fool  you  are,  Godfrey,  to  come  out  in  your  dancing  shoes  and 
stockings  in  this  way  —  and  you  one  of  the  beaux  of  the  even¬ 
ing,  and  at  your  own  house  !  What  do  you  mean  by  such 
freaks,  young  fellow?  Has  Miss  Nancy  been  cruel,  and  do 
you  want  to  spite  her  by  spoiling  your  pumps  ?  ” 

“  Oh,  everything  has  been  disagreeable  to-night.  I  was  tired 
to  death  of  jigging  and  gallanting,  and  that  bother  about  the 
hornpipes.  And  I ’d  got  to  dance  with  the  other  Miss  Gunn,” 
said  Godfrey,  glad  of  the  subterfuge  his  uncle  had  suggested 
to  him. 

The  prevarication  and  white  lies  which  a  mind  that  keeps 
itself  ambitiously  pure  is  as  uneasy  under  as  a  great  artist 
under  the  false  touches  that  no  eye  detects  but  his  own,  are 
worn  as  lightly  as  mere  trimmings  when  once  the  actions  have 
become  a  lie. 

Godfrey  reappeared  in  the  White  Parlor  with  dry  feet,  and, 
since  the  truth  must  be  told,  with  a  sense  of  relief  and  glad¬ 
ness  that  was  too  strong  for  painful  thoughts  to  struggle  with. 
For  could  he  not  venture  now,  whenever  opportunity  offered, 
to  say  the  tenderest  things  to  Nancy  Lammeter  —  to  promise 
her  and  himself  that  he  would  always  be  just  what  she  would 
desire  to  see  him  ?  There  was  no  danger  that  his  dead  wife 
would  be  recognized :  those  were  not  days  of  active  inquiry 
ana  wide  report ;  and  as  for  the  registry  of  their  marriage, 
that  was  a  long  way  off,  buried  in  unturned  pages,  away  from 
every  one’s  interest  but  his  own.  Dunsey  might  betray  him 
if  he  came  back ;  but  Dunsey  might  be  won  to  silence. 

And  when  events  turn  out  so  much  better  for  a  man  than  he 
has  had  reason  to  dread,  is  it  not  a  proof  that  his  conduct  has 
been  less  foolish  and  blameworthy  than  it  might  otherwise 
have  appeared  ?  When  we  are  treated  well,  we  naturally  be¬ 
gin  to  think  that  we  are  not  altogether  unmeritorious,  and 


SILAS  MARNER. 


339 


that  it  is  only  just  we  should  treat  ourselves  well,  and  not  mar 
our  own  good  fortune.  Where,  after  all,  would  be  the  use  of 
his  confessing  the  past  to  Nancy  Lammeter,  and  throwing  away 
his  happiness  ?  —  nay,  hers  ?  for  he  felt  some  confidence  that 
she  loved  him.  As  for  the  child,  he  would  see  that  it  was 
cared  for  :  he  would  never  forsake  it ;  he  would  do  everything 
but  own  it.  Perhaps  it  would  be  just  as  happy  in  life  without 
being  owned  by  its  father,  seeing  that  nobody  could  tell  how 
things  would  turn  out,  and  that  —  is  there  any  other  reason 
wanted  ?  —  well,  then,  that  the  father  would  be  much  happier 
without  owning  the  child. 


♦ 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

There  was  a  pauper’s  burial  that  week  in  Raveloe,  and  up 
Kench  Yard  at  Batherley  it  was  known  that  the  dark-haired 
woman  with  the  fair  child,  who  had  lately  come  to  lodge  there, 
was  gone  away  again.  That  was  all  the  express  note  taken 
that  Molly  had  disappeared  from  the  eyes  of  men.  But  the 
unwept  death  which,  to  the  general  lot,  seemed  as  trivial  as 
the  summer-shed  leaf,  was  charged  with  the  force  of  destiny 
to  certain  human  lives  that  we  know  of,  shaping  their  joys 
and  sorrows  even  to  the  end. 

Silas  Marner’s  determination  to  keep  the  “  tramp’s  child  ” 
was  matter  of  hardly  less  surTuise  and  iterated  talk  in  the 
village  than  the  robbery  of  fiis  money.  That  softening  of 
feeling  towards  him  which  dated  from  his  misfortune,  that 
merging  of  siispicion  and  dislike  in  a  rather  contemptuous 
pity  for  him  as  lone  and  crazy,  was  now  accompanied  with  a 
more  active  sympathy,  especially  among  the  women.  Notable 
mothers,  who  knew  what  it  was  to  keep  children  “  whole  and 
sweet ;  ”  lazy  mothers,  who  knew  what  it  was  to  be  interrupted 
in  folding  their  arms  and  scratching  their  elbows  by  the  mis- 
chievous  propensities  of  children  just  firm  on  their  legs,  were 


340 


SILAS  MARNER. 


equally  interested  in  conjecturing  how  a  lone  man  would  man¬ 
age  with  a  two-year-old  child  on  his  hands,  and  were  equally 
ready  v^ith  their  suggestions :  the  notable  chiefly  telling  him 
what  he  had  better  do,  and  the  lazy  ones  being  emphatic  in 
telling  him  what  he  would  never  be  able  to  do. 

Among  the  notable  mothers,  Dolly  Winthrop  was  the  one 
whose  neighborly  offices  were  the  most  acceptable  to  Marner, 
for  they  were  rendered  without  any  show  of  bustling  instruc¬ 
tion.  Silas  had  shown  her  the  half-guinea  given  to  him  by 
Godfrey,  and  had  asked  her  what  he  should  do  about  getting 
some  clothes  for  the  child. 

“  Eh,  Master  Marner,”  said  Dolly,  “  there ’s  no  call  to  buy, 
no  more  nor  a  pair  o’  shoes ;  for  I  ’ve  got  the  little  petticoats 
as  Aaron  wore  five  years  ago,  and  it ’s  ill  spending  the  money 
on  them  baby-clothes,  for  the  child  ’ull  grow  like  grass  i’  May, 
bless  it  —  that  it  will.” 

And  the  same  day  Dolly  brought  her  bundle,  and  displayed 
to  Marner,  one  by  one,  the  tiny  garments  in  their  due  order  of 
succession,  most  of  them  patched  and  darned,  but  clean  and 
neat  as  fresh-sprung  herbs.  This  was  the  introduction  to  a 
great  ceremony  with  soap  and  water,  from  which  Baby  came 
out  in  new  beauty,  and  sat  on  Dolly’s  knee,  handling  her  toes 
and  chuckling  and  patting  her  palms  together  with  an  air  of 
having  made  several  discoveries  about  herself,  which  she 
communicated  by  alternate  sounds  of  gug-gug-gug,”  and 
mammy.”  The  “  mammy  ”  was  not  a  cry  of  need  or  uneasi¬ 
ness  :  Baby  had  been  used  to  utter  it  without  expecting  either 
tender  sound  or  touch  to  follow. 

“  Anybody  ’ud  think  the  angils  in  heaven  could  n’t  be  pret¬ 
tier,”  said  Dolly,  rubbing  the  golden  curls  and  kissing  them. 
“  And  to  think  of  its  being  covered  wi’  them  dirty  rags  —  and 
the  poor  mother  froze  to  death;  but  there ’s  Them  as  took  care 
of  it,  and  brought  it  to  your  door.  Master  Marner.  The  door 
was  open,  and  it  walked  in  over  the  snow,  like  as  if  it  had  been 
a  little  starved  robin.  Did  n’t  you  say  the  door  was  open  ?  ” 

“  Yes,”  said  Silas,  meditatively.  “  Yes  —  the  door  was 
open.  The  money ’s  gone  I  don’t  know  where,  and  this  is 
come  from  I  don’t  know  where.” 


SILAS  MARNER. 


841 


He  had  not  mentioned  to  any  one  his  unconsciousness  of  the 
child’s  entrance,  shrinking  from  questions  which  might  lead 
to  the  fact  he  himself  suspected  —  namely,  that  he  had  been 
in  one  of  his  trances. 

“Ah,”  said  Dolly,  with  soothing  gravity,  “it’s  like  the 
night  and  the  morning,  and  the  sleeping  and  the  waking,  and 
the  rain  and  the  harvest  —  one  goes  and  the  other  comes,  and 
we  know  nothing  how  nor  where.  We  may  strive  and  scrat 
and  fend,  but  it ’s  little  we  can  do  arter  all  —  the  big  things 
come  and  go  wi’  no  striving  o’  our  ’n  —  they  do,  that  they  do ; 
and  I  think  you  ’re  in  the  right  on  it  to  keep  the  little  un. 
Master  Marner,  seeing  as  it ’s  been  sent  to  you,  though  there ’s 
folks  as  thinks  different.  You  ’ll  happen  be  a  bit  moithered 
with  it  while  it ’s  so  little ;  but  I  ’ll  come,  and  welcome,  and 
see  to  it  for  you :  I ’ve  a  bit  o’  time  to  spare  most  days,  for 
when  one  gets  up  betimes  i’  the  morning,  the  clock  seems  to 
Stan’  still  tow’rt  ten,  afore  it ’s  time  to  go  about  the  victual. 
So,  as  I  say,  I  ’ll  come  and  see  to  the  child  for  you,  and 
welcome.” 

“  Thank  you — kindly,”  said  Silas,  hesitating  a  little.  “  I  ’ll 
be  glad  if  you’ll  tell  me  things.  But,”  he  added  uneasily, 
leaning  forward  to  look  at  Baby  with  some  jealousy,  as  she 
was  resting  her  head  backward  against  Dolly’s  arm,  and  eying 
him  contentedly  from  a  distance  —  “  but  I  want  to  do  things 
for  it  myself,  else  it  may  get  fond  o’  somebody  else,  and  not 
fond  o’  me.  I’ve  been  used  to  fending  for  myself  in  the  house 
—  I  can  learn,  I  can  learn.” 

“Eh,  to  be  sure,”  said  Dolly,  gently.  “I’ve  seen  men  as 
are  wonderful  liandy  wi’  children.  The  men  are  awk’ard  and 
contrairy  mostly,  God  help  ’em  — but  when  the  drink’s  out  of 
’em,  they  are  n’t  unsensible,  though  they  ’re  bad  for  leeching 
and  bandaging  —  so  fiery  and  unpatient.  You  see  this  goes 
first,  next  the  skin,”  proceeded  Dolly,  taking  up  the  little 
shirt,  and  putting  it  on. 

“Yes,”  said  Marner,  docilely,  bringing  his  eyes  very  close, 
that  they  might  be  initiated  in  the  mysteries ;  whereupon 
Baby  seized  his  head  with  both  her  small  arms,  and  put  hei 
lips  against  his  face  with  purring  noises. 


SILAS  MARNEM. 


‘^See  there,”  said  Dolly,  with  a  woman’s  tender  tact,  “she’s 
fondest  o’  you.  She  wants  to  go  o’  your  lap,  I  ’ll  be  bound. 
Go,  then :  take  her.  Master  Marner ;  you  can  put  the  things 
on,  and  then  you  can  say  as  you’ve  done  for  her  from  the 
first  of  her  coming  to  you.” 

Marner  took  her  on  his  lap,  trembling  with  an  emotion 
mysterious  to  himself,  at  something  unknown  dawning  on 
his  life.  Thought  and  feeling  were  so  confused  within  him, 
that  if  he  had  tried  to  give  them  utterance,  he  could  only 
have  said  that  the  child  was  come  instead  of  the  gold  —  that 
the  gold  had  turned  into  the  child.  He  took  the  garments 
from  Dolly,  and  put  them  on  under  her  teaching ;  interrupted, 
of  course,  by  Baby’s  gymnastics. 

“  There,  then !  why,  you  take  to  it  quite  easy.  Master  Mar¬ 
ner,”  said  Dolly ;  “  but  what  shall  you  do  when  you  ’re  forced 
to  sit  in  your  loom  For  she  ’ll  get  busier  and  mischievouser 
every  day  —  she  will,  bless  her.  It ’s  lucky  as  you  ’ve  got 
that  high  hearth  i’stead  of  a  grate,  for  that  keeps  the  fire 
more  out  of  her  reach  :  but  if  you ’ve  got  anything  as  can  be 
spilt  or  broke,  or  as  is  fit  to  cut  her  fingers  off,  she  ’ll  be  at  it 

—  and  it  is  but  right  you  should  know.” 

Silas  meditated  a  little  while  in  some  perplexity.  “  I  ’ll  tie 
her  to  the  leg  o’  the  loom,”  he  said  at  last  — “  tie  her  with  a 
good  long  strip  o’  something.” 

“Well,  mayhap  that’ll  do,  as  it’s  a  little  gell,  for  they’re 
easier  persuaded  to  sit  i’  one  place  nor  the  lads.  I  know  what 
the  lads  are;  for  I’ve  had  four  —  four  I’ve  had,  God  knows 

—  and  if  you  was  to  take  and  tie  ’em  up,  they ’d  make  a  fight¬ 
ing  and  a  crying  as  if  you  was  ringing  the  pigs.  But  I  ’ll 
bring  you  my  little  chair,  and  some  bits  o’  red  rag  and  things 
for  her  to  play  wi’ ;  an’  she  ’ll  sit  and  chatter  to  ’em  as  if  they 
was  alive.  Eh,  if  it  was  n’t  a  sin  to  the  lads  to  wish  ’em  made 
different,  bless  ’em,  I  should  ha’  been  glad  for  one  of  ’em  to  be 
a  little  gell ;  and  to  think  as  I  could  ha’  taught  her  to  scour, 
and  mend,  and  the  knitting,  and  everything.  But  I  can  teach 
’em  this  little  un>  Master  Marner,  when  she  gets  old  enough.” 

“But  she’ll  be  my  little  un,”  said  Marner,  rather  hastily. 
“She’ll  be  nobody  else’s.” 


SILAS  MAUNER. 


348 


“Ko,  to  be  sure;  you’ll  have  a  right  to  her,  if  you’re  a 
father  to  her,  and  bring  her  up  according.  But,”  added  Dolly, 
coming  to  a  point  which  she  had  determined  beforehand  to 
touch  upon,  “you  must  bring  her  up  like  christened  folks’s 
children,  and  take  her  to  church,  and  let  her  learn  her  cate¬ 
chise,  as  my  little  Aaron  can  say  off  —  the  ‘I  believe,’  and 
everything,  and  ‘hurt  nobody  by  word  or  deed,’  —  as  well  as 
if  he  was  the  clerk.  That ’s  what  you  must  do.  Master  Mar- 
ner,  if  you ’d  do  the  right  thing  by  the  orphin  child.” 

Marner’s  pale  face  flushed  suddenly  under  a  new  anxiety. 
His  mind  was  too  busy  trying  to  give  some  definite  bearing 
to  Dolly’s  words  for  him  to  think  of  answering  her. 

“  And  it ’s  my  belief,”  she  went  on,  “  as  the  poor  little  crea¬ 
ture  has  never  been  christened,  and  it ’s  nothing  but  right  as 
the  parson  should  be  spoke  to ;  and  if  you  was  noways  unwill¬ 
ing,  I’d  talk  to  Mr.  Macey  about  it  this  very  day.  For  if  the 
child  ever  went  anyways  wrong,  and  you  hadn’t  done  your 
part  by  it.  Master  Marner  —  ’noculation,  and  everything  to 
save  it  from  harm  —  it  ’ud  be  a  thorn  i’  your  bed  forever  o’ 
this  side  the  grave ;  and  I  can ’t  think  as  it  ’ud  be  easy  lying 
down  for  anybody  when  they ’d  got  to  another  world,  if  they 
had  n’t  done  their  part  by  the  helpless  children  as  come  wi’out 
their  own  asking.” 

Dolly  herself  was  disposed  to  be  silent  for  some  time  now, 
for  she  had  spoken  from  the  depths  of  her  own  simple  belief, 
and  was  much  concerned  to  know  whether  her  words  would 
produce  the  desired  effect  on  Silas.  He  was  puzzled  and 
anxious,  for  Dolly’s  word  “  christened  ”  conveyed  no  distinct 
meaning  to  him.  He  had  only  heard  of  baptism,  and  had 
only  seen  the  baptism  of  grown-up  men  and  women. 

“What  is  it  as  you  mean  by  ‘christened’  ?”  he  said  at  last, 
timidly.  “Won’t  folks  be  good  to  her  without  it  ?  ” 

“  Dear,  dear !  Master  Marner,”  said  Dolly,  with  gentle  dis¬ 
tress  and  compassion.  “  Had  you  never  no  father  nor  mother 
as  taught  you  to  say  your  prayers,  and  as  there ’s  good  words 
and  good  things  to  keep  us  from  harm  ?  ” 

“Yes,”  said  Silas,  in  a  low  voice;  “I  know  a  deal  about 
that  —  used  to,  used  to.  But  your  ways  are  different:  my 


844 


SILAS  MARKER. 


country  was  a  good  way  off.’’  He  paused  a  few  moments, 
and  then  added,  more  decidedly,  ‘‘But  I  want  to  do  every¬ 
thing  as  can  be  done  for  the  child.  And  whatever ’s  right  for 
it  i’  this  country,  and  you  think  ’ull  do  it  good,  I  ’ll  act  accord¬ 
ing,  if  you  ’ll  tell  me.” 

“  Well,  then.  Master  Marner,”  said  Holly,  inwardly  rejoiced, 
“  I  ’ll  ask  Mr.  Macey  to  speak  to  the  parson  about  it ;  and  jmu 
must  fix  on  a  name  for  it,  because  it  must  have  a  name  giv’  it 
when  it’s  christened.” 

“My  mother’s  name  was  Hephzibah,”  said  Silas,  “and  my 
little  sister  was  named  after  her.” 

“  Eh,  that ’s  a  hard  name,”  said  Holly.  “  I  partly  think  it 
isn’t  a  christened  name.” 

“  It ’s  a  Bible  name,”  said  Silas,  old  ideas  recurring. 

“  Then  I  ’ve  no  call  to  speak  again’  it,”  said  Holly,  rather 
startled  by  Silas’s  knowledge  on  this  head ;  “  but  you  see  1  ’in 
no  scholard,  and  I ’m  slow  at  catching  the  words.  My  hus¬ 
band  says  I ’m  allays  like  as  if  I  was  putting  the  haft  for  the 
handle  —  that ’s  what  he  says  —  for  he’s  very  sharp,  God  help 
him.  But  it  was  awk’ard  calling  your  little  sister  by  such  a 
hard  name,  when  you ’d  got  nothing  big  to  say,  like  —  was  n’t 
it,  Master  Marner  ?  ” 

“We  called  her  Eppie,”  said  Silas. 

“  Well,  if  it  was  noways  wrong  to  shorten  the  name,  it  ’ud 
be  a  deal  handier.  And  so  I  ’ll  go  now,  Master  Marner,  and 
I’ll  speak  about  the  christening  afore  dark;  and  I  wish  you 
the  best  o’  luck,  and  it ’s  my  belief  as  it  ’ll  come  to  you,  if 
you  do  what ’s  right  by  the  orphin  child  ;  —  and  there ’s  the 
’noculation  to  be  seen  to ;  and  as  to  washing  its  bits  o’  things, 
you  need  look  to  nobody  but  me,  for  I  can  do  ’em  wi’  one 
hand  when  I ’ve  got  my  suds  about.  Eh,  the  blessed  angil  ! 
You  ’ll  let  me  bring  my  Aaron  one  o’  these  days,  and  he  ’ll 
show  her  his  little  cart  as  his  father ’s  made  for  him,  and  the 
black-and-white  pup  as  he ’s  got  a-rearing.” 

Baby  tvas  christened,  the  Rector  deciding  that  a  double 
baptism  was  the  lesser  risk  to  incur ;  and  on  this  occasion 
Silas,  making  himself  as  clean  and  tidy  as  he  could,  appeared 
for  the  first  time  within  the  church,  and  shared  in  the  obser- 


SILAS  MARNE  K. 


345 


vances  held  sacred  by  his  neighbors.  He  was  quite  unable, 
by  means  of  anything  he  heard  or  saw,  to  identify  the  Raveloe 
religion  with  his  old  faith ;  if  he  could  at  any  time  in  his 
previous  life  have  done  so,  it  must  have  been  by  the  aid  of  a 
strong  feeling  ready  to  vibrate  with  sympathy,  rather  than  by 
a  comparison  of  phrases  and  ideas  :  and  now  for  long  years 
that  feeling  had  been  dormant.  He  had  no  distinct  idea 
about  the  baptism  and  the  church-going,  except  that  Dolly 
had  said  it  was  for  the  good  of  the  child ;  and  in  this  way, 
as  the  weeks  grew  to  months,  the  child  created  fresh  and  fresh 
links  between  his  life  and  the  lives  from  which  he  had  hither¬ 
to  shrunk  continually  into  narrower  isolation.  Unlike  the 
gold  which  needed  nothing,  and  must  be  worshipped  in  close- 
locked  solitude — which  was  hidden  away  from  the  daylight, 
was  deaf  to  the  song  of  birds,  and  started  to  no  human  tones 
—  Eppie  was  a  creature  of  endless  claims  and  ever-growing 
desires,  seeking  and  loving  sunshine,  and  living  sounds,  and 
living  movements  ;  making  trial  of  everything,  with  trust  in 
new  joy,  and  stirring  the  human  kindness  in  all  eyes  that 
looked  on  her.  The  gold  had  kept  his  thoughts  in  an  ever- 
repeated  circle,  leading  to  nothing  beyond  itself ;  but  Eppie 
was  an  object  compacted  of  changes  and  hopes  that  forced  his 
thoughts  onward,  and  carried  them  far  away  from  their  old 
eager  pacing  towards  the  same  blank  limit  —  carried  them 
away  to  the  new  things  that  would  come  with  the  coming 
years,  when  Eppie  would  have  learned  to  understand  how  her 
father  Silas  cared  for  her ;  and  made  him  look  for  images  of 
that  time  in  the  ties  and  charities  that  bound  together  the 
families  of  his  neighbors.  The  gold  had  asked  that  he  should 
sit  weaving  longer  and  longer,  deafened  and  blinded  more  and 
more  to  all  things  except  the  monotony  of  his  loom  and  the 
repetition  of  his  web  ;  but  Eppie  called  him  away  from  his 
weaving,  and  make  him  think  all  its  pauses  a  holiday,  re¬ 
awakening  his  senses  with  her  fresh  life,  even  to  the  old 
winter-flies  that  came  crawling  forth  in  the  early  spring  sun¬ 
shine,  and  warming  him  into  joy  because  she  had  joy. 

And  when  the  sunshine  grew  strong  and  lasting,  so  that  the 
buttercups  were  thick  in  th(5  meadows,  Silas  might  be  seen 


346 


SILAS  MAENER. 


in  the  sunny  mid-day,  or  in  the  late  afternoon  when  the 
shadows  were  lengthening  under  the  hedgerows,  strolling  out 
with  uncovered  head  to  carry  Eppie  beyond  the  Stone-pits  to 
where  the  flowers  grew,  till  they  reached  some  favorite  bank 
where  he  could  sit  down,  while  Eppie  toddled  to  pluck  the 
flowers,  and  make  remarks  to  the  winged  things  that  mur¬ 
mured  happily  above  the  bright  petals,  calling  “  Dad-dad’s  ” 
attention  continually  by  bringing  him  the  flowers.  Then  she 
would  turn  her  ear  to  some  sudden  bird-note,  and  Silas  learned 
to  please  her  by  making  signs  of  hushed  stillness,  that  they 
might  listen  for  the  note  to  come  again  :  so  that  when  it 
came,  she  set  up  her  small  back  and  laughed  with  gurgling 
triumph.  Sitting  on  the  banks  in  this  way,  Silas  began  to 
look  for  the  once  familiar  herbs  again ;  and  as  the  leaves, 
with  their  unchanged  outline  and  markings,  lay  on  his  palm, 
there  was  a  sense  of  crowding  remembrances  from  which  he 
turned  away  timidly,  taking  refuge  in  Eppie’s  little  world, 
that  lay  lightly  on  his  enfeebled  spirit. 

As  the  child’s  mind  was  growing  into  knowledge,  his  mind 
was  growing  into  memory :  as  her  life  unfolded,  his  soul,  long 
stupefied  in  a  cold  narrow  prison,  was  unfolding  too,  and 
trembling  gradually  into  full  consciousness. 

It  was  an  influence  which  must  gather  force  with  every  new 
year :  the  tones  that  stirred  Silas’s  heart  grew  articulate,  and 
called  for  more  distinct  answers  ;  shapes  and  sounds  grew 
clearer  for  Eppie’s  eyes  and  ears,  and  there  was  more  that 
‘‘Dad-dad”  was  imperatively  required  to  notice  and  account 
for.  Also,  by  the  time  Eppie  was  three  years  old,  she  de¬ 
veloped  a  fine  capacity  for  mischief,  and  for  devising  ingenious 
ways  of  being  troublesome,  which  found  much  exercise,  not 
only  for  Silas’s  patience,  but  for  his  watchfulness  and  pene¬ 
tration.  Sorely  was  poor  Silas  puzzled  on  such  occasions  by 
the  incompatible  demands  of  love.  Dolly  Winthrop  told  him 
that  punishment  was  good  for  Eppie,  and  that,  as  for  rearing 
a  child  without  making  it  tingle  a  little  in  soft  and  safe  places 
now  and  then,  it  was  not  to  be  done. 

“  To  be  sure,  there ’s  another  thing  you  might  do.  Master 
Marner,”  added  Dolly,  meditatively :  “  you  might  shut  her  up 


SILAS  MARNER. 


847 


once  i’  the  coal-hole.  That  was  what  I  did  wi’  Aaron  ;  for  I 
was  that  silly  wi’  the  youngest  lad,  as  I  could  never  bear  tc 
smack  him.  Not  as  I  could  find  i’  my  heart  to  let  him  stay  i' 
the  coal-hole  more  nor  a  minute,  but  it  was  enough  to  colly 
him  all  over,  so  as  he  must  be  new  washed  and  dressed,  and 
it  was  as  good  as  a  rod  to  him  —  that  was.  But  I  put  it  upo’ 
your  conscience.  Master  Marner,  as  there’s  one  of  ’em  you 
must  choose  —  ayther  smacking  or  the  coal-hole  —  else  she  ’ll 
get  so  masterful,  there  ’ll  be  no  holding  her.” 

Silas  was  impressed  with  the  melancholy  truth  of  this  last 
remark ;  but  his  force  of  mind  failed  before  the  only  two 
penal  methods  open  to  him,  not  only  because  it  was  painful 
to  him  to  hurt  Eppie,  but  because  he  trembled  at  a  moment’s 
contention  with  her,  lest  she  should  love  him  the  less  for  it. 
Let  even  an  affectionate  Goliath  get  himself  tied  to  a  small 
tender  thing,  dreading  to  hurt  it  by  pulling,  and  dreading  still 
more  to  snap  the  cord,  and  which  of  the  two,  pray,  will  be 
master  ?  It  was  clear  that  Eppie,  with  her  short  toddling 
steps,  must  lead  father  Silas  a  pretty  dance  on  any  fine  morn¬ 
ing  when  circumstances  favored  mischief. 

For  example.  He  had  wisely  chosen  a  broad  strip  of  linen 
as  a  means  of  fastening  her  to  his  loom  when  he  was  busy : 
it  made  a  broad  belt  round  her  waist,  and  was  long  enough  to 
allow  of  her  reaching  the  truckle-bed  and  sitting  down  on  it, 
but  not  long  enough  for  her  to  attempt  any  dangerous  climb¬ 
ing.  One  bright  summer’s  morning  Silas  had  been  more  en¬ 
grossed  than  usual  in  “  setting  up  ”  a  new  piece  of  work,  an 
occasion  on  which  his  scissors  were  in  requisition.  These 
scissors,  owing  to  an  especial  warning  of  Dolly’s,  had  been 
kept  carefully  out  of  Eppie’s  reach  ;  but  the  click  of  them  had 
had  a  peculiar  attraction  for  her  ear,  and  watching  the  results 
of  that  click,  she  had  derived  the  philosophic  lesson  that  the 
same  cause  would  produce  the  same  effect.  Silas  had  seated 
himself  in  his  loom,  and  the  noise  of  weaving  had  begun  ; 
but  he  had  left  his  scissors  on  a  ledge  which  Eppie’s  arm  was 
long  enough  to  reach ;  and  now,  like  a  small  mouse,  watching 
her  opportunity,  she  stole  quietly  from  her  corner,  secured  the 
scissors,  and  toddled  to  the  bed  again,  setting  up  her  back  as 


348 


SILAS  MAENER. 


a  mode  of  concealing  tlie  fact.  She  had  a  distinct  intention 
as  to  the  use  of  the  scissors  ;  and  having  cut  the  linen  strip 
in  a  jagged  hut  effectual  manner,  in  two  moments  she  had 
run  out  at  the  open  door  where  the  sunshine  was  inviting  her, 
while  poor  Silas  believed  her  to  be  a  better  child  than  usual. 
It  was  not  until  he  happened  to  need  his  scissors  that  the 
terrible  fact  burst  upon  him  :  Eppie  had  run  out  by  herself  — 
had  perhaps  fallen  into  the  Stone-pit.  Silas,  shaken  by  the 
worst  fear  that  could  have  befallen  him,  rushed  out,  calling 
Eppie  !  ’’  and  ran  eagerly  about  the  unenclosed  space,  explor¬ 
ing  the  dry  cavities  into  which  she  might  have  fallen,  and 
then  gazing  with  questioning  dread  at  the  smooth  red  surface 
of  the  water.  The  cold  drops  stood  on  his  brow.  How  long 
had  she  been  out  ?  There  was  one  hope  —  that  she  had  crept 
through  the  stile  and  got  into  the  fields,  where  he  habitually 
took  her  to  stroll.  But  the  grass  was  high  in  the  meadow, 
and  there  was  no  descrying  her,  if  she  were  there,  except  by 
a  close  search  that  would  be  a  trespass  on  Mr.  Osgood’s  crop. 
Still,  that  misdemeanor  must  be  committed  ;  and  poor  Silas, 
after  peering  all  round  the  hedgerows,  traversed  the  grass, 
beginning  with  perturbed  vision  to  see  Eppie  behind  every 
group  of  red  sorrel,  and  to  see  her  moving  always  farther  off 
as  he  approached.  The  meadow  was  searched  in  vain ;  and 
he  got  over  the  stile  into  the  next  field,  looking  with  dying 
hope  towards  a  small  pond  which  was  now  reduced  to  its 
summer  shallowness,  so  as  to  leave  a  wide  margin  of  good 
adhesive  mud.  Here,  however,  sat  Eppie,  discoursing  cheer¬ 
fully  to  her  own  small  boot,  which  she  was  using  as  a  bucket 
to  convey  the  water  into  a  deep  hoof-mark,  while  her  little 
naked  foot  was  planted  comfortably  on  a  cushion  of  olive- 
green  mud.  A  red-headed  calf  was  observing  her  with  alarmed 
doubt  through  the  opposite  hedge. 

Here  was  clearly  a  case  of  aberration  in  a  christened  child 
which  demanded  severe  treatment ;  but  Silas,  overcome  with 
convulsive  joy  at  finding  his  treasure  again,  could  do  nothing 
but  snatch  her  up,  and  cover  her  with  half-sobbing  kisses. 
It  was  not  until  he  had  carried  her  home,  and  had  beg\n 
to  think  of  the  necessary  washing,  that  he  recollected  the 


SILAS  MARNER. 


849 


need  that  he  should  punish  Eppie,  and  “make  her  remem¬ 
ber.”  The  idea  that  she  might  run  away  again  and  come  to 
harm,  gave  him  unusual  resolution,  and  for  the  first  time  he 
determined  to  try  the  coal-hole  —  a  small  closet  near  the 
hearth. 

“  Naughty,  naughty  Eppie,”  he  suddenly  began,  holding  her 
on  his  knee,  and  pointing  to  her  muddy  feet  and  clothes  — ■ 
“naughty  to  cut  with  the  scissors  and  run  away.  Eppie 
must  go  into  the  coal-hole  for  being  naughty.  Daddy  must 
put  her  in  the  coal-hole.” 

He  half-expected  that  this  would  be  shock  enough,  and  that 
Eppie  would  begin  to  cry.  But  instead  of  that,  she  began  to 
shake  herself  on  his  knee,  as  if  the  proposition  opened  a 
pleasing  novelty.  Seeing  that  he  must  proceed  to  extremities, 
he  put  her  into  the  coal-hole,  and  held  the  door  closed,  with 
a  trembling  sense  that  he  was  using  a  strong  measure.  For 
a  moment  there  was  silence,  but  then  came  a  little  cry,  “  Opy, 
opy  !”  and  Silas  let  her  out  again,  saying,  “Now  Eppie  ’ull 
never  be  naughty  again,  else  she  must  go  in  the  coal-hole  —  a 
black  naughty  place.” 

The  weaving  must  stand  still  a  long  while  this  morning, 
for  now  Eppie  must  be  washed,  and  have  clean  clothes  on  ; 
but  it  was  to  be  hoped  that  this  punishment  would  have  a 
lasting  effect,  and  save  time  in  future  —  though,  perhaps,  it 
would  have  been  better  if  Eppie  had  cried  more. 

In  half  an  hour  she  was  clean  again,  and  Silas  having 
turned  his  back  to  see  what  he  could  do  with  the  linen  band, 
threw  it  down  again,  with  the  reflection  that  Eppie  would  be 
good  without  fastening  for  the  rest  of  the  morning.  He 
turned  round  again,  and  was  going  to  place  her  in  her  little 
chair  near  the  loom,  when  she  peeped  out  at  him  with  black 
face  and  hands  again,  and  said,  “  Eppie  in  de  toal-hole !  ” 

This  total  failure  of  the  coal-hole  discipline  shook  Silas’s 
belief  in  the  efficacy  of  punishment.  “  She ’d  take  it  all  for 
fun,”  he  observed  to  Dolly,  “  if  I  did  n’t  hurt  her,  and  that  I 
can’t  do,  Mrs.  Winthrop.  If  she  makes  me  a  bit  o’  trouble, 
I  can  bear  it.  And  she ’s  got  no  tricks  but  what  she  ’ll  grow 
out  of.” 


350 


SILAS  MARNER. 


“Well,  that’s  partly  true,  Master  Marner,”  said  Dolly,  sym¬ 
pathetically  ;  “  and  if  you  can’t  bring  your  mind  to  frighten 
her  off  touching  things,  you  must  do  what  you  can  to  keep 
’em  out  of  her  way.  That ’s  what  I  do  wi’  the  pups  as  the 
lads  are  allays  a-rearing.  They  will  worry  and  gnaw  —  worry 
and  gnaw  they  will,  if  it  was  one’s  Sunday  cap  as  hung  any¬ 
where  so  as  they  could  drag  it.  They  know  no  difference, 
God  help  ’em :  it ’s  the  pushing  o’  the  teeth  as  sets  ’em  on, 
that’s  what  it  is.” 

So  Eppie  was  reared  without  punishment,  the  burden  of  her 
misdeeds  being  borne  vicariously  by  father  Silas.  The  stone 
hut  was  made  a  soft  nest  for  her,  lined  with  downy  patience  : 
and  also  in  the  world  that  lay  beyond  the  stone  hut  she  knew 
nothing  of  frowns  and  denials. 

Notwithstanding  the  difficulty  of  carrying  her  and  his  yarn 
or  linen  at  the  same  time,  Silas  took  her  with  him  in  most  of 
his  journeys  to  the  farm-houses,  unwilling  to  leave  her  behind 
at  Dolly  Winthrop’s,  who  was  always  ready  to  take  care  of 
her  ;  and  little  curly-headed  Eppie,  the  weaver’s  child,  became 
an  object  of  interest  at  several  outlying  homesteads,  as  well  as 
in  the  village.  Hitherto  he  had  been  treated  very  much  as  if 
he  had  been  a  useful  gnome  or  brownie  —  a  queer  and  unac¬ 
countable  creature,  who  must  necessarily  be  looked  at  with 
wondering  curiosity  and  repulsion,  and  with  whom  one  would 
be  glad  to  make  all  greetings  and  bargains  as  brief  as  possible, 
but  who  must  be  dealt  with  in  a  propitiatory  way,  and  occa¬ 
sionally  have  a  present  of  pork  or  garden  stuff  to  carry  home 
with  him,  seeing  that  without  him  there  was  no  getting  the 
yarn  woven.  But  now  Silas  met  with  open  smiling  faces  and 
cheerful  questioning,  as  a  person  whose  satisfactions  and  diffi 
culties  could  be  understood.  Everywhere  he  must  sit  a  little 
and  talk  about  the  child,  and  words  of  interest  were  always 
ready  for  him :  “  Ah,  Master  Marner,  you  ’ll  be  lucky  if  she 
takes  the  measles  soon  and  easy  !  ”  —  or,  “  Why,  there  is  n’t 
many  lone  men  ’ud  ha’  been  wishing  to  take  up  with  a  little 
un  like  that:  but  I  reckon  the  weaving  makes  you  handier 
than  men  as  do  out-door  work  —  you  ’re  partly  as  handy  as  a 
woman,  for  weaving  comes  next  to  spinning.”  Elderly  mas- 


SILAS  MARNEK. 


351 


ters  and  mistresses,  seated  observantly  in  large  kitchen  arm¬ 
chairs,  shook  their  heads  over  the  difficulties  attendant  on 
rearing  children,  felt  Eppie’s  round  arms  and  legs,  and  pro¬ 
nounced  them  remarkably  firm,  and  told  Silas,  that,  if  she 
turned  out  well  (which,  however,  there  was  no  telling),  it 
would  be  a  fine  thing  for  him  to  have  a  steady  lass  to  do  for 
him  when  he  got  helpless.  Servant  maidens  were  fond  of 
carrying  her  out  to  look  at  the  hens  and  chickens,  or  to  see  if 
any  cherries  could  be  shaken  down  in  the  orchard ;  and  the 
small  boys  and  girls  approached  her  slowly,  with  cautious 
movement  and  steady  gaze,  like  little  dogs  face  to  face  with 
one  of  their  own  kind,  till  attraction  had  reached  the  point  at 
which  the  soft  lips  were  put  out  for  a  kiss.  No  child  was 
afraid  of  approaching  Silas  when  Eppie  was  near  him  :  there 
was  no  repulsion  around  him  now,  either  for  young  or  old  ;  for 
the  little  child  had  come  to  link  him  once  more  with  the  whole 
world.  There  was  love  between  him  and  the  child  that  blent 
them  into  one,  and  there  was  love  between  the  child  and  the 
world  —  from  men  and  women  with  parental  looks  and  tones, 
to  the  red  lady-birds  and  the  round  pebbles. 

Silas  began  now  to  think  of  Eaveloe  life  entirely  in  relation 
to  Eppie  :  she  must  have  everything  that  was  a  good  in  Eave¬ 
loe  ;  and  he  listened  docilely,  that  he  might  come  to  under¬ 
stand  better  what  this  life  was,  from  which,  for  fifteen  years, 
he  had  stood  aloof  as  from  a  strange  thing,  wherewith  he  could 
have  no  communion :  as  some  man  who  has  a  precious  plant  to 
which  he  would  give  a  nurturing  home  in  a  new  soil,  thinks  of 
the  rain,  and  the  sunshine,  and  all  influences,  in  relation  to 
his  nursling,  and  asks  industriously  for  all  knowledge  that  will 
help  him  to  satisfy  the  wants  of  the  searching  roots,  or  to 
guard  leaf  and  bud  from  invading  harm.  The  disposition  to 
hoard  had  been  utterly  crushed  at  the  very  first  by  the  loss  of 
his  long-stored  gold  ;  the  coins  he  earned  afterwards  seemed 
as  irrelevant  as  stones  brought  to  complete  a  house  suddenly 
buried  by  an  earthquake  ;  the  sense  of  bereavement  was  too 
heavy  upon  him  for  the  old  thrill  of  satisfaction  to  arise  again 
at  the  touch  of  the  newly-earned  coin.  And  now  something 
had  come  to  replace  his  hoard  which  gave  a  growing  purpose 


352  SILAS  MARNER. 

to  the  earnings,  drawing  his  hope  and  joy  continually  onward 
beyond  the  money. 

In  old  days  there  were  angels  who  came  and  took  men  by 
the  hand  and  led  them  away  from  the  city  of  destruction. 
We  see  no  white-winged  angels  now.  But  yet  men  are  led 
away  from  threatening  destruction  :  a  hand  is  put  into  theirs, 
which  leads  them  forth  gently  towards  a  calm  and  bright  land, 
so  that  they  look  no  more  backward ;  and  the  hand  may  be  a 
little  child’s. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

There  was  one  person,  as  you  will  believe,  who  watched  with 
keener  though  more  hidden  interest  than  any  other,  the  pros¬ 
perous  growth  of  Eppie  under  the  weaver’s  care.  He  dared 
not  do  anything  that  would  imply  a  stronger  interest  in  a  poor 
man’s  adopted  child  than  could  be  expected  from  the  kind¬ 
liness  of  the  young  Squire,  when  a  chance  meeting  suggested 
a  little  present  to  a  simple  old  fellow  whom  others  noticed 
with  goodwill ;  but  he  told  himself  that  the  time  would  come 
when  he  might  do  something  towards  furthering  the  welfare 
of  his  daughter  without  incurring  suspicion.  Was  he  very 
uneasy  in  the  meantime  at  his  inability  to  give  his  daughter 
her  birthright  ?  I  cannot  say  that  he  was.  The  child  was 
being  taken  care  of,  and  would  very  likely  be  happy,  as  people 
in  humble  stations  often  were  —  happier,  perhaps,  than  those 
brought  up  in  luxury. 

That  famous  ring  that  pricked  its  owner  when  he  forgot 
duty  and  followed  desire  —  I  wonder  if  it  pricked  very  hard 
when  he  set  out  on  the  chase,  or  whether  it  pricked  but  lightly 
then,  and  only  pierced  to  the  quick  when  the  chase  had  long 
been  ended,  and  hope,  folding  her  wings,  looked  backward  and 
became  regret  ? 

Godfrey  Cass’s  cheek  and  eye  were  brighter  than  ever 
now.  He  was  so  undivided  in  his  aims,  that  he  seemed  like 


SILAS  MAENER. 


353 


a  man  of  firmness.  No  Dunsey  had  come  back:  people  had 
made  up  their  minds  that  he  was  gone  for  a  soldier,  or  gone 

out  of  the  country,”  and  no  one  cared  to  be  specific  in  their 
inquiries  on  a  subject  delicate  to  a  respectable  family.  God¬ 
frey  ha(J  ceased  to  see  the  shadow  of  Dunsey  across  his  path  ; 
and  the  path  now  lay  straight  forward  to  the  accomplishment 
of  his  best,  longest-cherished  wishes.  Everybody  said  Mr. 
Godfrey  had  taken  the  right  turn ;  and  it  was  pretty  clear 
what  would  be  the  end  of  things,  for  there  were  not  many 
days  in  the  week  that  he  was  not  seen  riding  to  the  Warrens. 
Godfrey  himself,  when  he  was  asked  jocosely  if  the  day  had 
been  fixed,  smiled  with  the  pleasant  consciousness  of  a  lover 
who  could  say  “  yes,”  if  he  liked.  He  felt  a  reformed  man, 
delivered  from  temptation ;  and  the  vision  of  his  future  life 
seemed  to  him  as  a  promised  land  for  which  he  had  no  cause 
to  fight.  He  saw  himself  with  all  his  happiness  centred  on 
his  own  hearth,  while  Nancy  would  smile  on  him  as  lie 
played  with  the  children. 

And  that  other  child,  not  on  the  hearth  —  he  would  not 
forget  it ;  he  would  see  that  it  was  well  provided  for.  That 
was  a  father’s  duty. 


PART  IL 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

It  was  a  bright  autumn  Sunday,  sixteen  years  after  Silas 
Marner  had  found  his  new  treasure  on  the  hearth.  The  bells 
of  the  old  Raveloe  church  were  ringing  the  cheerful  peal 
which  told  that  the  morning  service  was  ended  j  and  out  of  the 
arched  doorway  in  the  tower  came  slowly,  retarded  by  friendly 
greetings  and  questions,  the  richer  parishioners  who  had  chosen 
this  bright  Sunday  morning  as  eligible  for  church-going.  It 
was  the  rural  fashion  of  that  time  for  the  more  important 
members  of  the  congregation  to  depart  first,  while  their 
humbler  neighbors  waited  and  looked  on,  stroking  their  bent 
heads  or  dropping  their  curtsies  to  any  large  ratepayer  who 
turned  to  notice  them. 

Foremost  among  these  advancing  groups  of  well-clad  people, 
there  are  some  whom  we  shall  recognize,  in  spite  of  Time,  who 
has  laid  his  hand  on  them  all.  The  tall  blond  man  of  forty 
is  not  mueh  changed  in  feature  from  the  Godfrey  Cass  of  six- 
and-twenty :  he  is  only  fuller  in  flesh,  and  has  only  lost  the 
indefinable  look  of  youth  —  a  loss  which  is  marked  even  when 
the  eye  is  undulled  and  the  wrinkles  are  not  yet  come.  Per¬ 
haps  the  pretty  woman,  not  much  younger  than  he,  who  is 
leaning  on  his  arm,  is  more  changed  than  her  husband  :  the 
lovely  bloom  that  used  to  be  always  on  her  cheek  now  comes 
but  fitfully,  with  the  fresh  morning  air  or  with  some  strong 
surprise  ;  yet  to  all  who  love  human  faces  best  for  what  they 
tell  of  human  experience,  Nancy’s  beauty  has  a  heightened 
interest.  Often  the  soul  is  ripened  into  fuller  goodness  while 
age  has  spread  an  ugly  film,  so  that  mere  glances  can  never 


SILAS  MARNER. 


855 


divine  the  preciousness  of  the  fruit.  But  the  years  have  not 
been  so  cruel  to  Nancy.  The  firm  yet  placid  mouth,  the  clear 
veracious  glance  of  the  brown  eyes,  speak  now  of  a  nature 
that  has  been  tested  and  has  kept  its  highest  qualities ;  and 
even  the  costume,  with  its  dainty  neatness  and  purity,  has 
more  significance  now  the  coquetries  of  youth  can  have 
nothing  to  do  with  it. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Godfrey  Cass  (any  higher  title  has  died  away 
from  Raveloe  lips  since  the  old  Squire  was  gathered  to  his 
fathers  and  his  inheritance  was  divided)  have  turned  round 
to  look  for  the  tall  aged  man  and  the  plainly  dressed  woman 
who  are  a  little  behind  —  Nancy  having  observed  that  they 
must  wait  for  “  father  and  Priscilla  ”  —  and  now  they  all  turn 
into  a  narrower  path  leading  across  the  churchyard  to  a  small 
gate  opposite  the  Red  House.  We  will  not  follow  them  now  ; 
for  may  there  not  be  some  others  in  this  departing  congregation 
whom  we  should  like  to  see  again  —  some  of  those  who  are  not 
likely  to  be  handsomely  clad,  and  whom  we  may  not  recognize 
go  easily  as  the  master  and  mistress  of  the  Red  House  ? 

But  it  is  impossible  to  mistake  Silas  Marner.  His  large 
brown  eyes  seem  to  have  gathered  a  longer  vision,  as  is  the 
way  with  eyes  that  have  been  short-sighted  in  early  life,  and 
they  have  a  less  vague,  a  more  answering  gaze ;  but  in  every¬ 
thing  else  one  sees  signs  of  a  frame  much  enfeebled  by  the 
lapse  of  the  sixteen  years.  The  weaver’s  bent  shoulders  and 
white  hair  give  him  almost  the  look  of  advanced  age,  though 
he  is  not  more  than  five-and-fifty ;  but  there  is  the  freshest 
blossom  of  youth  close  by  his  side  —  a  blond  dimpled  girl  of 
eighteen,  who  has  vainly  tried  to  chastise  her  curly  auburn 
hair  into  smoothness  under  her  brown  bonnet :  the  hair  ripples 
as  obstinately  as  a  brooklet  under  the  March  breeze,  and  the 
little  ringlets  burst  away  from  the  restraining  comb  behind 
and  show  themselves  below  the  bonnet-crown.  Eppie  cannot 
help  being  rather  vexed  about  her  hair,  for  there  is  no  other 
girl  in  Raveloe  who  has  hair  at  all  like  it,  and  she  thinks  hair 
ought  to  be  smooth.  She  does  not  like  to  be  blameworthy 
even  in  small  things :  you  see  how  neatly  her  prayer-book  is 
folded  in  her  spotted  handkerchieL 


35G 


SILAS  MAENER. 


That  good-looking  young  fellow,  in  a  new  fustian  suit,  who 
walks  behind  her,  is  not  quite  sure  upon  the  question  of  hair 
in  the  abstract,  when  Eppie  puts  it  to  him,  and  thinks  that 
perhaps  straight  hair  is  the  best  in  general,  but  he  does  n’t 
want  Eppie’s  hair  to  be  different.  She  surely  divines  that 
there  is  some  one  behind  her  who  is  thinking  about  her  very 
particularly,  and  mustering  courage  to  come  to  her  side  as 
soon  as  they  are  out  in  the  lane,  else  why  should  she  look 
rather  shy,  and  take  care  not  to  turn  away  her  head  from  her 
father  Silas,  to  whom  she  keeps  murmuring  little  sentences 
as  to  who  was  at  church,  and  who  was  not  at  church,  and  how 
pretty  the  red  mountain-ash  is  over  the  Rectory  wall ! 

“  I  wish  we  had  a  little  garden,  father,  with  double  daisies 
in,  like  Mrs.  Winthrop’s,”  said  Eppie,  when  they  were  out  in 
the  lane  ;  only  they  say  it  ’ud  take  a  deal  of  digging  and 
bringing  fresh  soil  —  and  you  could  n’t  do  that,  could  you, 
father  ?  Anyhow,  I  should  n’t  like  you  to  do  it,  for  it  ’ud  be 
too  hard  work  for  you.” 

“  Yes,  I  could  do  it,  child,  if  you  want  a  bit  o’  garden :  these 
long  evenings,  I  could  work  at  taking  in  a  little  bit  o’  the 
waste,  just  enough  for  a  root  or  two  o’  flowers  for  you ;  and 
again,  i’  the  morning,  I  could  have  a  turn  wi’  the  spade  before 
I  sat  down  to  the  loom.  Why  did  n’t  you  tell  me  before  as 
you  wanted  a  bit  o’  garden  ?  ” 

I  can  dig  it  for  you.  Master  Marner,”  said  the  young  man 
in  fustian,  who  was  now  by  Eppie’s  side,  entering  into  the 
conversation  without  the  trouble  of  formalities.  “  It  ’ll  be 
play  to  me  after  I ’ve  done  my  day’s  work,  or  any  odd  bits  o’ 
time  when  the  work ’s  slack.  And  I  ’ll  bring  you  some  soil 
from  Mr.  Cass’s  garden  —  he  ’ll  let  me,  and  willing.” 

“Eh,  Aaron,  my  lad,  are  you  there  ?  ”  said  Silas ;  “  I  was  n’t 
aware  of  you ;  for  when  Eppie ’s  talking  o’  things,  I  see  noth¬ 
ing  but  what  she ’s  a-saying.  Well,  if  you  could  help  me  with 
the  digging,  we  might  get  her  a  bit  o’  garden  all  the  sooner.” 

“Then,  if  you  think  well  and  good,”  said  Aaron,  “I’ll  come 
to  the  Stone-pits  this  afternoon,  and  we  ’ll  settle  what  land ’s 
to  be  taken  in,  and  I  ’ll  get  up  an  hour  earlier  i’  the  morning, 
and  begin  on  it.” 


SILAS  MARNER. 


857 


But  not  if  you  don’t  promise  me  not  to  work  at  the  hard 
digging,  father,”  said  Eppie.  For  I  should  n’t  ha’  said  any¬ 
thing  about  it,”  she  added,  half-bashfully  half-roguishly,  “  only 
Mrs.  Winthrop  said  as  Aaron  ’ud  be  so  good,  and  —  ” 

“  And  you  might  ha’  known  it  without  mother  telling  you,” 
said  Aaron.  And  Master  Marner  knows  too,  I  hope,  as  I ’m 
able  and  willing  to  do  a  turn  o’  work  for  him,  and  he  won’t  do 
me  the  unkindness  to  anyways  take  it  out  o’  my  hands.” 

“  There,  now,  father,  you  won’t  work  in  it  till  it ’s  all  easy,” 
said  Eppie,  “  and  you  and  me  can  mark  out  the  beds,  and  make 
holes  and  plant  the  roots.  It  ’ll  be  a  deal  livelier  at  the  Stone- 
pits  when  we ’ve  got  some  flowers,  for  I  always  think  the 
flowers  can  see  us  and  know  what  we  ’re  talking  about.  And 
I  ’ll  have  a  bit  o’  rosemary,  and  bergamot,  and  thyme,  because 
they  ’re  so  sweet-smelling  j  but  there ’s  no  lavender  only  in 
the  gentlefolks’  gardens,  I  think.” 

‘^That’s  no  reason  why  you  shouldn’t  have  some,”  said 
Aaron,  “  for  I  can  bring  you  slips  of  anything  ;  I ’m  forced  to 
cut  no  end  of  ’em  when  I ’m  gardening,  and  throw  ’em  away 
mostly.  There ’s  a  big  bed  o’  lavender  at  the  Red  House :  the 
missis  is  very  fond  of  it.” 

‘‘  Well,”  said  Silas,  gravely,  “so  as  you  don’t  make  free  for 
us,  or  ask  for  anything  as  is  worth  much  at  the  Red  House ; 
for  Mr.  Cass’s  been  so  good  to  us,  and  built  us  up  the  new  end 
o’  the  cottage,  and  given  us  beds  and  things,  as  I  could  n’t 
abide  to  be  imposin’  for  garden-stuff  or  anything  else.” 

“No,  no,  there’s  no  imposin’,”  said  Aaron;  “there’s  never 
a  garden  in  all  the  parish  but  what  there ’s  endless  waste  in  it 
for  want  o’  somebody  as  could  use  everything  up.  It ’s  what 
I  think  to  myself  sometimes,  as  there  need  nobody  run  short 
o’  victuals  if  the  land  was  made  the  most  on,  and  there  was 
never  a  morsel  but  what  could  find  its  way  to  a  mouth.  It 
sets  one  thinking  o’  that  —  gardening  does.  But  I  must  go 
back  now,  else  mother  ’ull  be  in  trouble  as  I  are  n’t  there.” 

“  Bring  her  with  you  this  afternoon,  Aaron,”  said  Eppie  ; 
“  I  should  n’t  like  to  fix  about  the  garden,  and  her  not  know 
everything  from  the  first  —  should  you,  father  ?  ” 

“  Ay,  bring  her  if  you  can,  Aaron,”  said  Silas  ;  “  she ’s  sure 


358  SILAS  MARNER. 

to  have  a  word  to  say  as  ’ll  help  us  to  set  things  on  their  right 
end.” 

Aaron  turned  back  up  the  village,  while  Silas  and  Eppie 
went  on  up  the  lonely  sheltered  lane. 

Oh  daddy  !  ”  she  began,  when  they  were  in  privacy,  clasp¬ 
ing  and  squeezing  Silas’s  arm,  and  skipping  round  to  give  him 
an  energetic  kiss.  My  little  old  daddy !  I ’m  so  glad.  I 
don’t  think  I  shall  want  anything  else  when  we ’ve  got  a  little 
garden ;  and  I  knew  Aaron  would  dig  it  for  us,”  she  went  on 
with  roguish  triumph  —  “I  knew  that  very  well.” 

“You’re  a  deep  little  puss,  you  are,”  said  Silas,  with  the 
mild  passive  happiness  of  love-crowned  age  in  his  face  ;  “  but 
you’ll  make  yourself  fine  and  beholden  to  Aaron.” 

“  Oh  no,  I  sha’n’t,”  said  Eppie,  laughing  and  frisking ;  “  he 
likes  it.” 

“  Come,  come,  let  me  carry  your  prayer-book,  else  you  ’ll  be 
dropping  it,  jumping  i’  that  way.” 

Eppie  was  now  aware  that  her  behavior  was  under  observa¬ 
tion,  but  it  was  only  the  observation  of  a  friendly  donkey, 
browsing  with  a  log  fastened  to  his  foot  —  a  meek  donkey, 
not  scornfully  critical  of  human  trivialities,  but  thankful  to 
share  in  them,  if  possible,  by  getting  his  nose  scratched ;  and 
Eppie  did  not  fail  to  gratify  him  with  her  usual  notice,  though 
it  was  attended  with  the  inconvenience  of  his  following  them, 
painfully,  up  to  the  very  door  of  their  home. 

But  the  sound  of  a  sharp  bark  inside,  as  Eppie  put  the  key 
in  the  door,  modified  the  donkey’s  views,  and  he  limped  away 
again  without  bidding.  The  sharp  bark'  was  the  sign  of  an 
excited  welcome  that  was  awaiting  them  from  a  knowing 
brown  terrier,  who,  after  dancing  at  their  legs  in  a  hysterical 
manner,  rushed  with  a  worrying  noise  at  a  tortoise-shell  kitten 
under  the  loom,  and  then  rushed  back  with  a  sharp  bark  again, 
as  much  as  to  say,  “  I  have  done  my  duty  by  this  feeble  crea¬ 
ture,  you  perceive ;  ”  while  the  lady-mother  of  the  kitten  sat 
sunning  her  white  bosom  in  the  window,  and  looked  round 
with  a  sleepy  air  of  expecting  caresses,  though  she  was  not 
going  to  take  any  trouble  for  them. 

The  presence  of  this  happy  animal  life  was  not  the  only 


SILAS  MARNEE. 


359 


cliange  which  had  come  over  the  interior  of  the  stone  cottage. 
There  was  no  bed  now  in  the  living-room,  and  the  small  space 
was  well  filled  with  decent  furniture,  all  bright  and  clean  enough 
to  satisfy  Dolly  Winthrop’s  eye.  The  oaken  table  and  three- 
cornered  oaken  chair  were  hardly  what  was  likely  to  be  seen 
in  so  poor  a  cottage :  they  had  come,  with  the  beds  and  other 
things,  from  the  Bed  House  ;  for  Mr.  Godfrey  Cass,  as  every 
one  said  in  the  village,  did  very  kindly  by  the  weaver ;  and  it 
was  nothing  but  right  a  man  should  be  looked  on  and  helped 
by  those  who  could  afford  it,  when  he  had  brought  up  an  or¬ 
phan  child,  and  been  father  and  mother  to  her  —  and  had 
lost  his  money  too,  so  as  he  had  nothing  but  what  he  worked 
for  week  by  week,  and  when  the  weaving  was  going  down  too 
—  for  there  was  less  and  less  flax  spun  —  and  Master  Marner 
was  none  so  young.  Nobody  was  jealous  of  the  weaver,  for 
he  was  regarded  as  an  exceptional  person,  whose  claims  on 
neighborly  help  were  not  to  be  matched  in  Baveloe.  Any 
superstition  that  remained  concerning  him  had  taken  an  en¬ 
tirely  new  color ;  and  Mr.  Macey,  now  a  very  feeble  old  man 
of  fourscore  and  six,  never  seen  except  in  his  chimney-corner 
or  sitting  in  the  sunshine  at  his  door-sill,  was  of  opinion  that 
when  a  man  had  done  what  Silas  had  done  by  an  orphan  child, 
it  was  a  sign  that  his  money  would  come  to  light  again,  or 
leastwise  that  the  robber  would  be  made  to  answer  for  it  — 
for,  as  Mr.  Macey  observed  of  himself,  his  faculties  were  as 
strong  as  ever. 

Silas  sat  down  now  and  watched  Eppie  with  a  satisfied  gaze 
as  she  spread  the  clean  cloth,  and  set  on  it  the  potato-pie, 
warmed  up  slowly  in  a  safe  Sunday  fashion,  by  being  put  into 
a  dry  pot  over  a  slowly-dying  fire,  as  the  best  substitute  for  an 
oven.  Eor  Silas  would  not  consent  to  have  a  grate  and  oven 
added  to  his  conveniences  :  he  loved  the  old  brick  hearth  as 
he  had  loved  his  brown  pot  —  and  was  it  not  there  when  he 
had  found  Eppie  ?  The  gods  of  the  hearth  exist  for  us  still ; 
and  let  all  new  faith  be  tolerant  of  that  fetichism,  lest  it 
bruise  its  own  roots. 

Silas  ate  his  dinner  more  silently  than  usual,  soon  laying 
down  his  knife  and  fork,  and  watching  half-abstractedlj 


360 


SILAS  MARNER. 


Eppie’s  play  with  Snap  and  the  cat,  by  which  her  own  dining 
was  made  rather  a  lengthy  business.  Yet  it  was  a  sight  that 
might  well  arrest  wandering  thoughts ;  Eppie,  with  the  rip¬ 
pling  radiance  of  her  hair  and  the  whiteness  of  her  rounded 
chin  and  throat  set  off  by  the  dark-blue  cotton  gown,  laughing 
merrily  as  the  kitten  held  on  with  her  four  claws  to  one  shoul¬ 
der,  like  a  design  for  a  jug-handle,  while  Snap  on  the  right 
hand  and  Puss  on  the  other  put  up  their  paws  towards  a  mor¬ 
sel  which  she  held  out  of  the  reach  of  both  —  Snap  occasion¬ 
ally  desisting  in  order  to  remonstrate  with  the  cat  by  a  cogent 
worrying  growl  on  the  greediness  and  futility  of  her  conduct ; 
till  Eppie  relented,  caressed  them  both,  and  divided  the  morsel 
between  them. 

But  at  last  Eppie,  glancing  at  the  clock,  checked  the  play, 
and  said,  “  Oh  daddy,  you  ’re  wanting  to  go  into  the  sunshine 
to  smoke  your  pipe.  But  I  must  clear  away  first,  so  as  the 
house  may  be  tidy  when  godmother  comes.  I  ’ll  make  haste 
—  I  won’t  be  long.” 

Silas  had  taken  to  smoking  a  pipe  daily  during  the  last  two 
years,  having  been  strongly  urged  to  it  by  the  sages  of  Baveloe, 
as  a  practice  “  good  for  the  fits ;  ”  and  this  advice  was  sanc¬ 
tioned  by  Dr.  Kimble,  on  the  ground  that  it  was  as  well  to  try 
what  could  do  no  harm  —  a  principle  which  was  made  to 
answer  for  a  great  deal  of  work  in  that  gentleman’s  medical 
practice.  Silas  did  not  highly  enjoy  smoking,  and  often  won 
dered  how  his  neighbors  could  be  so  fond  of  it ;  but  a  humble 
sort  of  acquiescence  in  what  was  held  to  be  good,  had  become 
a  strong  habit  of  that  new  self  which  had  been  developed  in 
him  since  he  had  found  Eppie  on  his  hearth :  it  had  been  the 
only  clew  his  bewildered  mind  could  hold  by  in  cherishing 
this  young  life  that  had  been  sent  to  him  out  of  the  darkness 
into  which  his  gold  had  departed.  By  seeking  what  was  need¬ 
ful  for  Eppie,  by  sharing  the  effect  that  everything  produced 
on  her,  he  had  himself  come  to  appropriate  the  forms  of  cus¬ 
tom  and  belief  which  were  the  mould  of  Baveloe  life ;  and  as, 
with  reawakening  sensibilities,  memory  also  reawakened,  be 
had  begun  to  ponder  over  the  elements  of  his  old  faith,  and 
blend  them  with  his  new  impressions,  till  he  recovered  a  con- 


SILAS  MARNER. 


361 


sciousness  of  unity  between  his  past  and  present.  The  sense 
of  presiding  goodness  and  the  human  trust  which  come  with 
all  pure  peace  and  joy,  had  given  him  a  dim  impression  that 
there  had  been  some  error,  some  mistake,  which  had  thrown 
that  dark  shadow  over  the  days  of  his  best  years ;  and  as  it 
grew  more  and  more  easy  to  him  to  open  his  mind  to  Dolly 
Winthrop,  he  gradually  communicated  to  her  all  he  could 
describe  of  his  early  life.  The  communication  was  necessa¬ 
rily  a  slow  and  difficult  process,  for  Silas’s  meagre  power  of 
explanation  was  not  aided  by  any  readiness  of  interpretation 
in  Dolly,  whose  narrow  outward  experience  gave  her  no  key 
to  strange  customs,  and  made  every  novelty  a  source  of  won¬ 
der  that  arrested  them  at  every  step  of  the  narrative.  It  was 
only  by  fragments,  and  at  intervals  which  left  Dolly  time  to 
revolve  what  she  had  heard  till  it  acquired  some  familiarity 
for  her,  that  Silas  at  last  arrived  at  the  climax  of  the  sad 
story  —  the  drawing  of  lots,  and  its  false  testimony  concern¬ 
ing  him ;  and  this  had  to  be  repeated  in  several  interviews, 
under  new  questions  on  her  part  as  to  the  nature  of  this  plan 
for  detecting  the  guilty  and  clearing  the  innocent. 

And  yourn ’s  the  same  Bible,  you  ’re  sure  o’  that.  Master 
Marner  —  the  Bible  as  you  brought  wi’  you  from  that  country 
—  it’s  the  same  as  what  they’ve  got  at  church,  and  what 
Eppie ’s  a-learning  to  read  in  ?  ” 

“Yes,”  said  Silas,  “every  bit  the  same;  and  there’s  drawing 
o’  lots  in  the  Bible,  mind  you,”  he  added  in  a  lower  tone. 

“  Oh  dear,  dear,”  said  Dolly  in  a  grieved  voice,  as  if  she  were 
hearing  an  unfavorable  report  of  a  sick  man’s  case.  She  was 
silent  for  some  minutes ;  at  last  she  said  — 

“There’s  wise  folks,  happen,  as  know  how  it  all  is;  the 
parson  knows.  I’ll  be  bound;  but  it  takes  big  words  to  teh 
them  things,  and  such  as  poor  folks  can’t  make  much  out  on, 
I  can  never  rightly  know  the  meaning  o’  what  I  hear  at  church, 
only  a  bit  here  and  there,  but  I  know  it’s  good  words  —  I  do. 
But  what  lies  upo’  your  mind — it’s  this.  Master  Marner:  as, 
if  Them  above  had  done  the  right  thing  by  you.  They ’d  never 
ha’  let  you  be  turned  out  for  a  wicked  thief  when  you  was 
innicent.” 


SILAS  MARKER. 


;62 

^‘Ah !”  said  Silas,  who  had  now  come  to  understand  Dolly’s 
phraseology,  “that  was  what  fell  on  me  like  as  if  it  had  been 
red-hot  iron;  because,  you- see,  there  was  nobody  as  cared  for 
me  or  clave  to  me  above  nor  below.  And  him  as  I ’d  gone  out 
and  in  wi’  for  ten  year  and  more,  since  when  we  was  lads  and 
went  halves  —  mine  own  familiar  friend  in  whom  I  trusted, 
had  lifted  up  his  heel  again’  me,  and  worked  to  ruin  me.” 

“Eh,  but  he  was  a  bad  un  —  I  can’t  think  as  there’s  another 
such,”  said  Dolly.  “  But  I ’m  o’ercome.  Master  Maruer ;  I ’m 
like  as  if  I ’d  waked  and  did  n’t  know  whether  it  was  night  or 
morning.  I  feel  somehow  as  sure  as  I  do  when  I’ve  laid 
something  up  though  I  can’t  justly  put  my  hand  on  it,  as  there 
was  a  rights  in  what  happened  to  you,  if  one  could  but  make 
it  out ;  and  you ’d  no  call  to  lose  heart  as  you  did.  But  we  ’ll 
talk  on  it  again;  for  sometimes  things  come  into  my  head 
when  I’m  leeching  or  poulticing,  or  such,  as  I  could  never 
think  on  when  I  was  sitting  still.” 

Dolly  was  too  useful  a  woman  not  to  have  many  opportu¬ 
nities  of  illumination  of  the  kind  she  alluded  to,  and  she  was 
not  long  before  she  recurred  to  the  subject. 

“  Master  Marner,”  she  said,  one  day  that  she  came  to  bring 
home  Eppie’s  washing,  “  I  ’ve  been  sore  puzzled  for  a  good  bit 
wi’  that  trouble  o’  yourn  and  the  drawing  o’  lots ;  and  it  got 
twisted  back’ards  and  for’ards,  as  I  did  n’t  know  which  end  to 
lay  hold  on.  But  it  come  to  me  all  clear  like,  that  night  when 
I  was  sitting  up  wi’  poor  Bessy  Fawkes,  as  is  dead  and  left 
her  children  behind,  God  help  ’em  —  it  come  to  me  as  clear 
as  daylight ;  but  whether  I ’ve  got  hold  on  it  now,  or  can  any¬ 
ways  bring  it  to  my  tongue’s  end,  that  I  don’t  know.  For 
I ’ve  often  a  deal  inside  me  as  ’ll  never  come  out ;  and  for 
what  you  talk  o’  your  folks  in  your  old  country  niver  saying 
prayers  by  heart  nor  saying  ’em  out  of  a  book,  they  must  be 
wonderful  diver;  for  if  I  did  n’t  know  ‘Our  Father,’  and  little 
bits  o’  good  words  as  I  can  carry  out  o’  church  wi’  me,  I  might 
down  o’  my  knees  every  night,  but  nothing  could  I  say.” 

“But  you  can  mostly  say  something  as  I  can  make  sense 
on,  Mrs.  Winthrop,”  said  Silas. 

“Well,  then,  Master  Marner,  it  come  to  me  summat  like 


SILAS  MARNER. 


363 


this :  I  can  make  nothing  o’  the  drawing  o’  lots  and  the  an¬ 
swer  coming  wrong ;  it  ’ud  mayhap  take  the  parson  to  tel] 
that,  and  he  could  only  tell  us  i’  big  words.  But  what  come 
to  me  as  clear  as  the  daylight,  it  was  when  I  was  troubling 
over  poor  Bessy  Fawkes,  and  it  allays  comes  into  my  head 
when  I ’m  sorry  for  folks,  and  feel  as  I  can’t  do  a  power  to 
help  ’em,  not  if  I  was  to  get  up  i’  the  middle  o’  the  night  —  it 
comes  into  my  head  as  Them  above  has  got  a  deal  tenderer 
heart  nor  what  I ’ve  got  —  for  I  can’t  be  anyways  better  nor 
Them  as  made  me ;  and  if  anything  looks  hard  to  me,  it ’s 
because  there ’s  things  I  don’t  know  on ;  and  for  the  matter 
c’  that,  there  may  be  plenty  o’  things  I  don’t  know  on,  for  it’s 
little  as  I  know  —  that  it  is.  And  so,  while  I  was  thinking  o’ 
that,  you  come  into  my  mind.  Master  Marner,  and  it  all  come 
pouring  in :  —  if  /  felt  i’  my  inside  what  was  the  right  and 
just  thing  by  you,  and  them  as  prayed  and  drawed  the  lots, 
all  but  that  wicked  un,  if  they ’d  ha’  done  the  right  thing  by 
you  if  they  could,  is  n’t  there  Them  as  was  at  the  making  on 
us,  and  knows  better  and  has  a  better  will  ?  And  that ’s  all 
as  ever  I  can  be  sure  on,  and  everything  else  is  a  big  puzzle 
to  me  when  I  think  on  it.  For  there  was  the  fever  come  and 
took  off  them  as  were  full-growed,  and  left  the  helpless  chil¬ 
dren  ;  and  there ’s  the  breaking  o’  limbs  ;  and  them  as  ’ud  do 
right  and  be  sober  have  to  suffer  by  them  as  are  contrairy  — 
eh,  there ’s  trouble  i’  this  world,  and  there ’s  things  as  we  can 
niver  make  out  the  rights  on.  And  all  as  we ’ve  got  to  do  is 
to  trusten.  Master  Marner  —  to  do  the  right  thing  as  fur  as 
we  know,  and  to  trusten.  For  if  us  as  knows  so  little  can  see 
a  bit  o’  good  and  rights,  we  may  be  sure  as  there ’s  a  good  and 
a  rights  bigger  nor  what  we  can  know  —  I  feel  it  i’  my  own 
inside  as  it  must  be  so.  And  if  you  could  but  ha’  gone  on 
trustening.  Master  Marner,  you  would  n’t  ha’  run  away  from 
your  fellow-creaturs  and  been  so  lone.” 

“  Ah,  but  that  ’ud  ha’  been  hard,”  said  Silas,  in  an  under¬ 
tone  ;  “  it  ’ud  ha’  been  hard  to  trusten  then.” 

“And  so  it  would,”  said  Dolly,  almost  with  compunction  ; 
“  them  things  are  easier  said  nor  done ;  and  I ’m  pai’tly  ashamed 
o’  talking.” 


364 


SILAS  MARNER. 


‘^Nay,  nay/’  said  Silas,  “you  ’re  i’  the  right,  Mrs.  Winthrop 
—  you  ’re  i’  the  right.  There ’s  good  i’  this  world  —  I ’ve 
a  feeling  o’  that  now  ;  and  it  makes  a  man  feel  as  there ’s 
a  good  more  nor  he  can  see,  i’  spite  o’  the  trouble  and  the 
wickedness.  That  drawing  o’  the  lots  is  dark ;  but  the 
child  was  sent  to  me  ;  there ’s  dealings  with  us  —  there ’s 
dealings.” 

This  dialogue  took  place  in  Eppie’s  earlier  years,  when  Silas 
had  to  part  with  her  for  two  hours  every  day,  that  she  might 
learn  to  read  at  the  dame  school,  after  he  had  vainly  tried 
himself  to  guide  her  in  that  first  step  to  learning.  Now  that 
she  was  grown  up,  Silas  had  often  been  led,  in  those  moments 
of  quiet  outpouring  which  come  to  people  who  live  together  in 
perfect  love,  to  talk  with  her  too  of  the  past,  and  how  and  why 
he  had  lived  a  lonely  man  until  she  had  been  sent  to  him. 
Eor  it  would  have  been  impossible  for  him  to  hide  from  Eppie 
that  she  was  not  his  own  child :  even  if  the  most  delicate  reti¬ 
cence  on  the  point  could  have  been  expected  from  Kaveloe 
gossips  in  her  presence,  her  own  questions  about  her  mother 
could  not  have  been  parried,  as  she  grew  up,  without  that  com¬ 
plete  shrouding  of  the  past  which  would  have  made  a  painful 
barrier  between  their  minds.  So  Eppie  had  long  known  how 
her  mother  had  died  on  the  snowy  ground,  and  how  she  her¬ 
self  had  been  found  on  the  hearth  by  father  Silas,  who  had 
taken  her  golden  curls  for  his  lost  guineas  brought  back  to 
him.  The  tender  and  peculiar  love  with  which  Silas  had 
reared  her  in  almost  inseparable  companionship  with  himself, 
aided  by  the  seclusion  of  their  dwelling,  had  preserved  her 
from  the  lowering  influences  of  the  village  talk  and  habits, 
and  had  kept  her  mind  in  that  freshness  which  is  sometimes 
falsely  supposed  to  be  an  invariable  attribute  of  rusticity. 
Perfect  love  has  a  breath  of  poetry  which  can  exalt  the  rela¬ 
tions  of  the  least-instructed  human  beings  ;  and  this  breath  of 
poetry  had  surrounded  Eppie  from  the  time  when  she  had  fol¬ 
lowed  the  bright  gleam  that  beckoned  her  to  Silas’s  hearth; 
so  that  it  is  not  surprising  if,  in  other  things  besides  her  deli¬ 
cate  prettiness,  she  was  not  quite  a  common  village  maiden, 
but  had  a  touch  of  refinement  and  fervor  which  came  from  no 


SILAS  MARNER. 


365 


other  teaching  than  that  of  tenderly -nurtured  unvitiated  feel¬ 
ing.  She  was  too  childish  and  simple  for  her  imagination  to 
rove  into  questions  about  her  unknown  father ;  for  a  long 
while  it  did  not  even  occur  to  her  that  she  must  have  had  a 
father ;  and  the  first  time  that  the  idea  of  her  mother  having 
had  a  husband  presented  itself  to  her,  was  when  Silas  showed 
her  the  wedding-ring  which  had  been  taken  from  the  wasted 
finger,  and  had  been  carefully  preserved  by  him  in  a  little 
lacquered  box  shaped  like  a  shoe.  He  delivered  this  box  into 
Eppie’s  charge  when  she  had  grown  up,  and  she  often  opened 
it  to  look  at  the  ring :  but  still  she  thought  hardly  at  all  about 
the  father  of  whom  it  was  the  symbol.  Had  she  not  a  father 
very  close  to  her,  who  loved  her  better  than  any  real  fathers 
in  the  village  seemed  to  love  their  daughters  ?  On  the  con¬ 
trary,  who  her  mother  was,  and  how  she  came  to  die  in  that 
forlornness,  were  questions  that  often  pressed  on  Eppie’s  mind. 
Her  knowledge  of  Mrs.  Winthrop,  who  was  her  nearest  friend 
next  to  Silas,  made  her  feel  that  a  mother  must  be  very 
precious ;  and  she  had  again  and  again  asked  Silas  to  tell  her 
how  her  mother  looked,  whom  she  was  like,  and  how  he  had 
found  her  against  the  furze  bush,  led  towards  it  by  the  little 
footsteps  and  the  outstretched  arms.  The  furze  bush  was 
there  still;  and  this  afternoon,  when  Eppie  came  out  with 
Silas  into  the  sunshine,  it  was  the  first  object  that  arrested  her 
eyes  and  thoughts. 

“Father,”  she  said,  in  a  tone  of  gentle  gravity,  which  some¬ 
times  came  like  a  sadder,  slower  cadence  across  her  playful¬ 
ness,  “  we  shall  take  the  furze  bush  into  the  garden ;  it  ’ll 
come  into  the  corner,  and  just  against  it  I  ’ll  put  snowdrops 
and  crocuses,  ’cause  Aaron  says  they  won’t  die  out,  but  ’ll  al¬ 
ways  get  more  and  more.” 

“  Ah,  child,”  said  Silas,  always  ready  to  talk  when  he  had 
his  pipe  in  his  hand,  apparently  enjoying  the  pauses  more  than 
the  puffs,  “  it  would  n’t  do  to  leave  out  the  furze  bush  ;  and 
there ’s  nothing  prettier  to  my  thinking,  when  it ’s  yallow 
with  flowers.  But  it ’s  just  come  into  my  head  what  we’re  to 
do  for  a  fence  —  mayhap  Aaron  can  help  us  to  a  thought ;  but 
a  fence  we  must  have,  else  the  donkeys  and  things  ’ull  come 


366 


SILAS  MARNER. 


and  trample  everything  down.  And  fencing ’s  hard  to  be  got 
at,  by  what  I  can  make  out.” 

“  Oh,  I  ’ll  tell  you,  daddy,”  said  Eppie,  clasping  her  hands 
suddenly,  after  a  minute’s  thought.  “  There ’s  lots  o’  loose 
stones  about,  some  of  ’em  not  big,  and  we  might  lay  ’em 
atop  of  one  another,  and  make  a  wall.  You  and  me  could 
carry  the  smallest,  and  Aaron  ’ud  carry  the  rest  —  I  know  he 
would.” 

“Eh,  my  precious  un,”  said  Silas,  “there  isn’t  enough 
stones  to  go  all  round ;  and  as  for  you  carrying,  why,  wi’  your 
little  arms  you  could  n’t  carry  a  stone  no  bigger  than  a  turnip. 
You’re  dillicate  made,  my  dear,”  he  added,  with  a  tender  into¬ 
nation  —  “  that ’s  what  Mrs.  Winthrop  says.” 

“  Oh,  I ’m  stronger  than  you  think,  daddy,”  said  Eppie ; 
“  and  if  there  was  n’t  stones  enough  to  go  all  round,  why 
they  ’ll  go  part  o’  the  way,  and  then  it  ’ll  be  easier  to  get 
sticks  and  things  for  the  rest.  See  here,  round  the  big  pit, 
what  a  many  stones  !  ” 

She  skipped  forward  to  the  pit,  meaning  to  lift  one  of  the 
stones  and  exhibit  her  strength,  but  she  started  back  in 
surprise. 

“  Oh,  father,  just  come  and  look  here,”  she  exclaimed  — 
“  come  and  see  how  the  water ’s  gone  down  since  yesterday. 
Why,  yesterday  the  pit  was  ever  so  full  !  ” 

“  Well,  to  be  sure,”  said  Silas,  coming  to  her  side.  “  Why, 
that ’s  the  draining  they ’ve  begun  on,  since  harvest,  i’  Mr. 
Osgood’s  fields,  I  reckon.  The  foreman  said  to  me  the  other 
day,  when  I  passed  by  ’em,  ‘  Master  Marner,’  he  said,  ‘  I 
should  n’t  wonder  if  we  lay  your  bit  o’  waste  as  dry  as  a 
bone.’  It  was  Mr.  Godfrey  Cass,  he  said,  had  gone  into  the 
draining  :  he ’d  been  taking  these  fields  o’  Mr.  Osgood.” 

“How  odd  it’ll  seem  to  have  the  old  pit  dried  up  !”  said 
Eppie,  turning  away,  and  stooping  to  lift  rather  a  large  stone. 
“  See,  daddy,  I  can  carry  this  quite  well,”  she  said,  going 
along  with  much  energy  for  a  few  steps,  but  presently  letting 
it  fall. 

“  Ah,  you  ’re  fine  and  strong,  ar  n’t  you  ?  ”  said  Silas,  while 
Eppie  shook  her  aching  arms  and  laughed.  “Come,  come, 


SILAS  MARNER. 


367 


fet  us  go  and  sit  down  on  the  bank  against  the  stile  there,  and 
have  no  more  lifting.  You  might  hurt  yourself,  child.  You ’d 
need  have  somebody  to  work  for  you  —  and  my  arm  is  n’t 
over  strong.” 

Silas  uttered  the  last  sentence  slowly,  as  if  it  implied  more 
than  met  the  ear ;  and  Eppie,  when  they  sat  down  on  the 
bank,  nestled  close  to  his  side,  and,  taking  hold  caressingly  of 
the  arm  that  was  not  over  strong,  held  it  on  her  lap,  while 
Silas  puffed  again  dutifully  at  the  pipe,  which  occupied  his 
other  arm.  An  ash  in  the  hedgerow  behind  made  a  fretted 
screen  from  the  sun,  and  threw  happy  playful  shadows  all 
about  them. 

“Father,”  said  Eppie,  very  gently,  after  they  had  been  sit¬ 
ting  in  silence  a  little  while,  “if  I  was  to  be  married,  ought  I 
to  be  married  with  my  mother’s  ring  ?  ” 

Silas  gave  an  almost  imperceptible  start,  though  the  question 
fell  in  with  the  under-current  of  thought  in  his  own  mind, 
and  then  said,  in  a  subdued  tone,  “Why,  Eppie,  have  you 
been  a-thinking  on  it  ?  ” 

“  Only  this  last  week,  father,”  said  Eppie,  ingenuously, 
“  since  Aaron  talked  to  me  about  it.” 

“  And  what  did  he  say  ?  ”  said  Silas,  still  in  the  same  sub¬ 
dued  way,  as  if  he  were  anxious  lest  he  should  fall  into  the 
slightest  tone  that  was  not  for  Eppie’s  good. 

“  He  said  he  should  like  to  be  married,  because  he  was 
a-going  in  four-and-twenty,  and  had  got  a  deal  of  gardening 
work,  now  Mr.  Mott ’s  given  up ;  and  he  goes  twice  a-week 
regular  to  Mr.  Cass’s,  and  once  to  Mr.  Osgood’s,  and  they  ’re 
going  to  take  him  on  at  the  Eectory.” 

“  And  who  is  it  as  he ’s  wanting  to  marry  ?  ”  said  Silas, 
with  rather  a  sad  smile. 

“  Why,  me,  to  be  sure,  daddy,”  said  Eppie,  with  dimpling 
laughter,  kissing  her  father’s  cheek ;  “  as  if  he ’d  want  to 
marry  anybody  else  !  ” 

“  And  you  mean  to  have  him,  do  you  ?  ”  said  Silas. 

“Yes,  some  time,”  said  Eppie,  “I  don’t  know  when.  Every¬ 
body  ’s  married  some  time,  Aaron  says.  But  I  told  him  that 
was  n’t  true :  for,  I  said,  look  at  father  —  he ’s  never  beeu 
married.” 


368 


SILAS  MARNER. 


"No,  child,”  said  Silas,  "your  father  was  a  lone  man  till 
you  was  sent  to  him.” 

"  But  you  ’ll  never  be  lone  again,  father,”  said  Eppie,  ten¬ 
derly.  "  That  was  what  Aaron  said  —  ‘  I  could  never  think 
o’  taking  you  away  from  Master  Marner,  Eppie.’  And  I  said, 
‘  It  ’ud  be  no  use  if  you  did,  Aaron.’  And  he  wants  us  all  to 
'ive  together,  so  as  you  need  n’t  work  a  bit,  father,  only  what ’s 
for  your  own  pleasure ;  and  he ’d  be  as  good  as  a  son  to  you  — ■ 
that  was  what  he  said.” 

"  And  should  you  like  that,  Eppie  ?  ”  said  Silas,  looking  at 
her. 

"  I  should  n’t  mind  it,  father,”  said  Eppie,  quite  simply. 
“  And  I  should  like  things  to  be  so  as  you  need  n’t  work 
much.  But  if  it  was  n’t  for  that,  I ’d  sooner  things  did  n’t 
change.  I ’m  very  happy  :  I  like  Aaron  to  be  fond  of  me,  and 
come  and  see  us  often,  and  behave  pretty  to  you  he  always 
does  behave  pretty  to  you,  does  n’t  he,  father  ?  ” 

"Yes,  child,  nobody  could  behave  better,”  said  Silas,  em¬ 
phatically.  "He’s  his  mother’s  lad.” 

"  But  I  don’t  want  any  change,”  said  Eppie.  "  I  should 
like  to  go  on  a  long,  long  while,  just  as  we  are.  Only  Aaron 
does  want  a  change  ;  and  he  made  me  cry  a  bit  —  only  a  bit 
—  because  he  said  I  did  n’t  care  for  him,  for  if  I  cared  for 
him  I  should  want  us  to  be  married,  as  he  did.” 

"  Eh,  my  blessed  child,”  said  Silas,  laying  down  his  pipe  as 
if  it  were  useless  to  pretend  to  smoke  any  longer,  "  you  ’re 
o’er  young  to  be  married.  We  ’ll  ask  Mrs.  Winthrop  —  we  ’ll 
ask  Aaron’s  mother  what  she  thinks  :  if  there ’s  a  right  thing 
to  do,  she  ’ll  come  at  it.  But  there ’s  this  to  be  thought  on, 
Eppie :  things  will  change,  whether  we  like  it  or  no  ;  things 
won’t  go  on  for  a  long  while  just  as  they  are  and  no  differ¬ 
ence.  I  shall  get  older  and  helplesser,  and  be  a  burden  on 
you,  belike,  if  I  don’t  go  away  from  you  altogether.  Not  as 
I  mean  you’d  think  me  a  burden  —  I  know  you  wouldn’t  — 
but  it  ’ud  be  hard  upon  you  ;  and  when  I  look  for’ard  to  that, 
I  like  to  think  as  you ’d  have  somebody  else  besides  me  — 
somebody  young  and  strong,  as  ’ll  outlast  your  own  life,  and 
take  care  on  you  to  the  end.”  Silas  paused,  and,  resting  his 


SILAS  MARKER.  369 

wrists  on  his  knees,  lifted  his  hands  up  and  down  meditatively 
as  be  looked  on  the  ground. 

“  Then,  would  you  like  me  to  be  married,  father  ?  ”  said 
Eppie,  with  a  little  trembling  in  her  voice. 

“  I  ’ll  not  be  the  man  to  say  no,  Eppie,”  said  Silas,  emphati¬ 
cally  ;  “  but  we  ’ll  ask  your  godmother.  She  ’ll  wish  the  right 
thing  by  you  and  her  son  too.” 

‘‘There  they  come  then,”  said  Eppie.  “  Let  us  go  and  meet 
’em.  Oh  the  pipe  !  won’t  you  have  it  lit  again,  father  ?  ”  said 
Eppie,  lifting  that  medicinal  appliance  from  the  ground. 

“Nay,  child,”  said  Silas,  “I’ve  done  enough  for  to-day.  I 
think,  mayhap,  a  little  of  it  does  me  more  good  than  much 
at  once.” 


♦ 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

While  Silas  and  Eppie  were  seated  on  the  bank  discoursing 
in  the  fleckered  shade  of  the  ash-tree.  Miss  Priscilla  Lam  meter 
was  resisting  her  sister’s  arguments,  that  it  would  be  better  to 
take  tea  at  the  Red  House,  and  let  her  father  have  a  long  nap, 
than  drive  home  to  the  Warrens  so  soon  after  dinner.  The 
family  party  (of  four  only)  were  seated  round  the  table  in  the 
dark  wainscoted  parlor,  with  the  Sunday  dessert  before  them, 
of  fresh  filberts,  apples,  and  pears,  duly  ornamented  with  leaves 
by  Nancy’s  own  hand  before  the  bells  had  rung  for  church. 

A  great  change  has  come  over  the  dark  wainscoted  parlor 
since  we  saw  it  in  Godfrey’s  bachelor  days,  and  under  the 
wifeless  reign  of  the  old  Squire.  Now  all  is  polish,  on  which 
no  yesterday’s  dust  is  ever  allowed  to  rest,  from  the  yard’s 
width  of  oaken  boards  round  the  carpet,  to  the  old  Squire’s 
gun  and  whips  and  walking-sticks,  ranged  on  the  stag’s  antlers 
above  the  mantelpiece.  All  other  signs  of  sporting  and  out¬ 
door  occupation  Nancy  has  removed  to  another  room ;  but  she 
has  brought  into  the  Red  House  the  habit  of  filial  reverence, 
and  preserves  sacredly  in  a  place  of  honor  these  relics  of  her 

24 


VOL.  VI. 


370 


SILAS  MARKER. 


husband’s  departed  father.  The  tankards  are  on  the  side- 
table  still,  but  the  bossed  silver  is  undimmed  by  handling,  and 
there  are  no  dregs  to  send  forth  unpleasant  suggestions  :  the 
only  prevailing  scent  is  of  the  lavender  and  rose-leaves  that 
fill  the  vases  of  Derbyshire  spar.  All  is  purity  and  order  in 
this  once  dreary  room,  for,  fifteen  years  ago,  it  was  entered  by 
a  new  presiding  spirit. 

‘‘Now,  father,”  said  Nancy,  “is  there  any  call  for  you  to  go 
home  to  tea  ?  May  n’t  you  just  as  well  stay  with  us  ?  —  such 
a  beautiful  evening  as  it ’s  likely  to  be.” 

The  old  gentleman  had  been  talking  with  Godfrey  about 
the  increasing  poor-rate  and  the  ruinous  times,  and  had  not 
heard  the  dialogue  between  his  daughters. 

“My  dear,  you  must  ask  Priscilla,”  he  said,  in  the  once 
firm  voice,  now  become  rather  broken.  “  She  manages  me  and 
the  farm  too.” 

“And  reason  good  as  I  should  manage  you,  father,”  said 
Priscilla,  “  else  you ’d  be  giving  yourself  your  death  with 
rheumatism.  And  as  for  the  farm,  if  anything  turns  out 
wrong,  as  it  can’t  but  do  in  these  times,  there ’s  nothing  kills 
a  man  so  soon  as  having  nobody  to  find  fault  with  but  him¬ 
self.  It ’s  a  deal  the  best  way  o’  being  master,  to  let  some¬ 
body  else  do  the  ordering,  and  keep  the  blaming  in  your  own 
hands.  It  ’ud  save  many  a  man  a  stroke,  I  believe.” 

“  Well,  well,  my  dear,”  said  her  father,  with  a  quiet  laugh, 
“  I  did  n’t  say  you  don’t  manage  for  everybody’s  good.” 

“  Then  manage  so  as  you  may  stay  tea,  Priscilla,”  said  Nancy, 
putting  her  hand  on  her  sister’s  arm  affectionately.  “Come 
now ;  and  we  ’ll  go  round  the  garden  while  father  has  his  nap.” 

“  My  dear  child,  he  ’ll  have  a  beautiful  nap  in  the  gig,  for 
I  shall  drive.  And  as  for  staying  tea,  I  can’t  hear  of  it ;  for 
there’s  this  dairymaid,  now  she  knows  she’s  to  be  married, 
turned  Michaelmas,  she ’d  as  lief  pour  the  new  milk  into  the 
pig-trough  as  into  the  pans.  That ’s  the  way  with  ’em  all : 
it’s  as  if  they  thought  the  world  ’ud  be  new-made  because 
they  ’re  to  be  married.  So  come  and  let  me  put  my  bonnet 
on,  and  there  ’ll  be  time  for  us  to  walk  round  the  garden  while 
the  horse  is  being  put  in.” 


SILAS  MARNER. 


87J 


When  the  sisters  were  treading  the  neatly-swept  garden- 
walks,  between  the  bright  turf  that  contrasted  pleasantly  with 
the  dark  cones  and  arches  and  wall-like  hedges  of  yew,  Priscilla 
said  — 

“  I ’m  as  glad  as  anything  at  your  husband’s  making  that 
exchange  o’  land  with  cousin  Osgood,  and  beginning  the 
dairying.  It ’s  a  thousand  pities  you  did  n’t  do  it  before  ;  for 
it  ’ll  give  you  something  to  fill  your  mind.  There ’s  nothing 
like  a  dairy  if  folks  want  a  bit  o’  worrit  to  make  the  days 
pass.  Por  as  for  rubbing  furniture,  when  you  can  once  see 
your  face  in  a  table  there ’s  nothing  else  to  look  for ;  but 
there ’s  always  something  fresh  with  the  dairy ;  for  even  in 
the  depths  o’  winter  there ’s  some  pleasure  in  conquering  the 
butter,  and  making  it  come  whether  or  no.  My  dear,”  added 
Priscilla,  pressing  her  sister’s  hand  affectionately  as  they 
walked  side  by  side,  you  ’ll  never  be  low  when  you  ’ve  got  a 
dairy.” 

Ah,  Priscilla,”  said  Nancy,  returning  the  pressure  with  a 
grateful  glance  of  her  clear  eyes,  “  but  it  won’t  make  up  to 
Godfrey :  a  dairy ’s  not  so  much  to  a  man.  And  it ’s  only 
what  he  cares  for  that  ever  makes  me  low.  I ’m  contented 
with  the  blessings  we  have,  if  he  could  be  contented.” 

“It  drives  me  past  patience,”  said  Priscilla,  impetuously, 
“that  way  o’  the  men  —  always  wanting  and  wanting,  and 
never  easy  with  what  they ’ve  got :  they  can’t  sit  comfortable 
in  their  chairs  when  they ’ve  neither  ache  nor  pain,  but  either 
they  must  stick  ft  pipe  in  their  mouths,  to  make  ’em  better 
than  well,  or  else  they  must  be  swallowing  something  strong, 
though  they’re  forced  to  make  haste  before  the  next  meal 
comes  in.  But  joyful  be  it  spoken,  our  father  was  never  that 
sort  o’  man.  And  if  it  had  pleased  God  to  make  you  ugly,  like 
me,  so  as  the  men  would  n’t  ha’  run  after  you,  we  might  have 
kept  to  our  own  family,  and  had  nothing  to  do  with  folks  as 
have  got  uneasy  blood  in  their  veins.” 

“  Oh  don’t  say  so,  Priscilla,”  said  Nancy,  repenting  that  she 
had  called  forth  this  outburst ;  “  nobody  has  any  occasion  to 
find  fault  with  Godfrey.  It’s  natural  he  should  be  disap¬ 
pointed  at  not  having  any  children :  every  man  likes  to  have 


872 


SILAS  MARNER. 


somebody  to  work  for  and  lay  by  for,  and  he  always  counted 
so  on  making  a  fuss  with  ’em  when  they  were  little.  There ’s 
many  another  man  ’ud  hanker  more  than  he  does.  He ’s  the 
best  of  husbands,” 

“  Oh,  I  know,”  said  Priscilla,  smiling  sarcastically,  I  know 
the  way  o’  wives ;  they  set  one  on  to  abuse  their  husbands, 
and  then  they  turn  round  on  one  and  praise  ’em  as  if  they 
wanted  to  sell  ’em.  But  father  ’ll  be  waiting  for  me ;  we  must 
turn  now.” 

The  large  gig  with  the  steady  old  gray  was  at  the  front  door, 
and  Mr.  Lammeter  was  already  on  the  stone  steps,  passing  the 
time  in  recalling  to  Godfrey  what  very  fine  points  Speckle  had 
when  his  master  used  to  ride  him. 

“  I  always  would  have  a  good  horse,  you  know,”  said  the  old 
gentleman,  not  liking  that  spirited  time  to  be  quite  effaced 
from  the  memory  of  his  juniors. 

“Mind  you  bring  Nancy  to  the  Warrens  before  the  week’s 
out,  Mr.  Cass,”  was  Priscilla’s  parting  injunction,  as  she  took 
the  reins,  and  shook  them  gently,  by  way  of  friendly  incite¬ 
ment  to  Speckle. 

“  I  shall  just  take  a  turn  to  the  fields  against  the  Stone-pits, 
Nancy,  and  look  at  the  draining,”  said  Godfrey. 

“You’ll  be  in  again  by  tea-time,  dear  ?” 

“  Oh  yes,  I  shall  be  back  in  an  hour.” 

It  was  Godfrey’s  custom  on  a  Sunday  afternoon  to  do  a 
little  contemplative  farming  in  a  leisurely  walk.  Nancy  sel¬ 
dom  accompanied  him ;  for  the  women  of  her  generation  — 
unless,  like  Priscilla,  they  took  to  outdoor  management  —  were 
not  given  to  much  walking  beyond  their  own  house  and  gar¬ 
den,  finding  sufficient  exercise  in  domestic  duties.  So,  when 
Priscilla  was  not  with  her,  she  usually  sat  with  Mant’s  Bible 
before  her,  and  after  following  the  text  with  her  eyes  for  a 
little  while,  she  would  gradually  permit  them  to  wander  as 
her  thoughts  had  already  insisted  on  wandering. 

But  Nancy’s  Sunday  thoughts  were  rarely  quite  out  of  keep¬ 
ing  with  the  devout  and  reverential  intention  implied  by  the 
book  spread  open  before  her.  She  was  not  theologically  in¬ 
structed  enough  to  discern  very  clearly  the  relation  between  the 


SILAS  MARNER. 


373 


sacred  documents  of  the  past  which  she  opened  without  method, 
and  her  own  obscure,  simple  life  ;  but  the  spirit  of  rectitude,  and 
the  sense  of  responsibility  for  the  effect  of  her  conduct  on  others, 
which  were  strong  elements  in  Nancy’s  character,  had  made  it 
a  habit  with  her  to  scrutinize  her  past  feelings  and  actions 
with  self-questioning  solicitude.  Her  mind  not  being  courted 
by  a  great  variety  of  subjects,  she  filled  the  vacant  moments 
by  living  inwardly,  again  and  again,  through  all  her  remem¬ 
bered  experience,  especially  through  the  fifteen  years  of  her 
married  time,  in  which  her  life  and  its  significance  had  been 
doubled.  She  recalled  the  small  details,  the  words,  tones,  and 
looks,  in  the  critical  scenes  which  had  opened  a  new  epoch  for 
her  by  giving  her  a  deeper  insight  into  the  relations  and  trials 
of  life,  or  which  had  called  on  her  for  some  little  effort  of  for¬ 
bearance,  or  of  painful  adherence  to  an  imagined  or  real  duty 
—  asking  herself  continually  whether  she  had  been  in  any  re¬ 
spect  blamable.  This  excessive  rumination  and  self-question¬ 
ing  is  perhaps  a  morbid  habit  inevitable  to  a  mind  of  much 
moral  sensibility  when  shut  out  from  its  due  share  of  outward 
activity  and  of  nractical  claims  on  its  affections  —  inevitable 
to  a  noble-hearted,  childless  woman,  when  her  lot  is  narrow. 
‘‘  I  can  do  so  little  —  have  I  done  it  all  well  ?  ”  is  the  perpetu¬ 
ally  recurring  thought ;  and  there  are  no  voices  calling  hor 
away  from  that  soliloquy,  no  peremptory  demands  to  divert 
energy  from  vain  regret  or  superfluous  scruple. 

There  was  one  main  thread  of  painful  experience  in  Nancy’s 
married  life,  and  on  it  hung  certain  deeply-felt  scenes,  whioli 
were  the  oftenest  revived  in  retrospect.  The  short  dialogue 
with  Priscilla  in  the  garden  had  determined  the  current  of  ret¬ 
rospect  in  that  frequent  direction  this  particular  Sunday  after¬ 
noon.  The  first  wandering  of  her  thought  from  the  text, 
which  she  still  attempted  dutifully  to  follow  with  her  eyes 
and  silent  lips,  was  into  an  imaginary  enlargement  of  the 
defence  she  had  set  up  for  her  husband  against  Priscilla’s  im¬ 
plied  blame.  The  vindication  of  the  loved  object  is  the  best 
balm  affection  can  find  for  its  wounds  :  —  “A  man  must  have 
so  much  on  his  mind,”  is  the  belief  by  which  a  wife  often  sup¬ 
ports  a  cheerful  face  under  rough  answers  and  unfeeling  words. 


374 


SILAS  MARNER. 


And  Nancy’s  deepest  wounds  liad  all  come  from  the  perception 
that  the  absence  of  children  from  their  hearth  was  dwelt  on  in 
her  husband’s  mind  as  a  privation  to  which  he  could  not  rec¬ 
oncile  himself. 

Yet  sweet  Nancy  might  have  been  expected  to  feel  still  more 
keenly  the  denial  of  a  blessing  to  which  she  had  looked  for¬ 
ward  with  all  the  varied  expectations  and  preparations,  solemn 
and  prettily  trivial,  which  fill  the  mind  of  a  loving  woman 
when  she  expects  to  become  a  mother.  Was  there  not  a 
drawer  filled  with  the  neat  work  of  her  hands,  all  unworn 
and  untouched,  just  as  she  had  arranged  it  there  fourteen 
years  ago  —  just,  but  for  one  little  dress,  which  had  been  made 
the  burial-dress  ?  But  under  this  immediate  personal  trial 
Nancy  was  so  firmly  unmurmuring,  that  years  ago  she  had 
suddenly  renounced  the  habit  of  visiting  this  drawer,  lest  she 
should  in  this  way  be  cherishing  a  longing  for  what  was  not 
given. 

Perhaps  it  was  this  very  severity  towards  any  indulgence 
of  what  she  held  to  be  sinful  regret  in  herself,  that  made  her 
shrink  from  applying  her  own  standard  to  her  husband.  “  It 
is  very  different  —  it  is  much  worse  for  a  man  to  be  disap¬ 
pointed  in  that  way :  a  woman  can  always  be  satisfied  with 
devoting  herself  to  her  husband,  but  a  man  wants  something 
that  will  make  him  look  forward  more  —  and  sitting  by  the 
fire  is  so  much  duller  to  him  than  to  a  woman.”  And  always, 
when  Nancy  reached  this  point  in  her  meditations  —  trying, 
with  predetermined  sympathy,  to  see  everything  as  Godfrey 
saw  it  —  there  came  a  renewal  of  self-questioning.  Had  she 
done  everything  in  her  power  to  lighten  Godfrey’s  privation  ? 
Had  she  really  been  right  in  the  resistance  which  had  cost 
her  so  much  pain  six  years  ago,  and  again  four  years  ago  — - 
the  resistance  to  her  husband’s  wish  that  they  should  adopt 
a  child  ?  Adoption  was  more  remote  from  the  ideas  and 
habits  of  that  time  than  of  our  own;  still  Nancy  had  her 
opinion  on  it.  It  was  as  necessary  to  her  mind  to  have  an 
opinion  on  all  topics,  not  exclusively  masculine,  that  had 
come  under  her  notice,  as  for  her  to  have  a  precisely  marked 
place  for  every  article  of  her  personal  property  :  and  her 


STLAS  MARNER. 


3?5 


dpinions  were  always  principles  to  be  unwaveringly  acted  on. 
They  were  firm,  not  because  of  their  basis,  but  because  she 
held  them  with  a  tenacity  inseparable  from  her  mental  action. 
On  all  the  duties  and  proprieties  of  life,  from  filial  behavior 
to  the  arrangements  of  the  evening  toilet,  pretty  Nancy  Lam- 
meter,  by  the  time  she  was  three-and-twenty,  had  her  unal¬ 
terable  little  code,  and  had  formed  every  one  of  her  habits  in 
strict  accordance  with  that  code.  She  carried  these  decided 
judgments  within  her  in  the  most  unobtrusive  way :  they 
rooted  themselves  in  her  mind,  and  grew  there  as  quietly  as 
grass.  Years  ago,  we  know,  she  insisted  on  dressing  like 
Priscilla,  because  “  it  was  right  for  sisters  to  dress  alike,”  and 
because  “  she  would  do  what  was  right  if  she  wore  a  gown 
dyed  with  cheese-coloring.”  That  was  a  trivial  but  typical 
instance  of  the  mode  in  which  Nancy’s  life  was  regulated. 

It  was  one  of  those  rigid  principles,  and  no  petty  egoistic 
feeling,  which  had  been  the  ground  of  Nancy’s  difficult  resist¬ 
ance  to  her  husband’s  wish.  To  adopt  a  child,  because  chil¬ 
dren  of  your  own  had  been  denied  you,  was  to  try  and  choose 
your  lot  in  spite  of  Providence  :  the  adopted  child,  she  was 
convinced,  would  never  turn  out  well,  and  would  be  a  curse 
to  those  who  had  wilfully  and  rebelliously  sought  what  it  was 
clear  that,  for  some  high  reason,  they  were  better  without. 
When  you  saw  a  thing  was  not  meant  to  be,  said  Nancy,  it 
was  a  bounden  duty  to  leave  off  so  much  as  wishing  for  it. 
And  so  far,  perhaps,  the  wisest  of  men  could  scarcely  make 
more  than  a  verbal  improvement  in  her  principle.  But  the 
conditions  under  which  she  held  it  apparent  that  a  thing  was 
not  meant  to  be,  depended  on  a  more  peculiar  mode  of  think¬ 
ing.  She  would  have  given  up  making  a  purchase  at  a  par¬ 
ticular  place  if,  on  three  successive  times,  rain,  or  some  other 
cause  of  Heaven’s  sending,  had  formed  an  obstacle ;  and  she 
would  have  anticipated  a  broken  limb  or  other  heavy  misfor¬ 
tune  to  any  one  who  persisted  in  spite  of  such  indications. 

“  But  why  should  you  think  the  child  would  turn  out  ill  ?  ” 
said  Godfrey,  in  his  remonstrances.  “  She  has  thriven  as  well 
as  child  can  do  with  the  weaver ;  and  ?ie  adopted  her.  There 
is  n’t  such  a  pretty  little  girl  anywhere  else  in  the  parish,  or 


376 


SILAS  MARNER. 


one  fitter  for  the  station  we  could  give  her.  Where  can  be 
the  likelihood  of  her  being  a  curse  to  anybody  ?  ” 

“Yes,  my  dear  Godfrey,”  said  Nancy,  who  was  sitting  with 
her  hands  tightly  clasped  together,  and  with  yearning,  regret¬ 
ful  affection  in  her  eyes.  “The  child  may  not  turn  out  ill 
with  the  weaver.  But,  then,  he  didn’t  go  to  seek  her,  as  we 
should  be  doing.  It  will  be  wrong :  I  feel  sure  it  will.  Don’t 
you  remember  what  that  lady  we  met  at  the  Boyston  Baths 
told  us  about  the  child  her  sister  adopted  ?  That  was  the 
only  adopting  I  ever  heard  of :  and  the  child  was  transported 
when  it  was  twenty -three.  Dear  Godfrey,  don’t  ask  me  to  do 
what  I  know  is  wrong :  I  should  never  be  happy  again.  I 
know  it’s  very  hard  for  you  —  it’s  easier  for  me  —  but  it’s 
the  will  of  Providence.” 

It  might  seem  singular  that  Nancy  —  with  her  religious 
theory  pieced  together  out  of  narrow  social  traditions,  frag¬ 
ments  of  church  doctrine  imperfectly  understood,  and  girlish 
reasonings  on  her  small  experience  —  should  have  arrived  by 
herself  at  a  way  of  thinking  so  nearly  akin  to  that  of  many 
devout  people  whose  beliefs  are  held  in  the  shape  of  a  system 
quite  remote  from  her  knowledge :  singular,  if  we  did  not 
know  that  human  beliefs,  like  all  other  natural  growths,  elude 
the  barriers  of  system. 

Godfrey  had  from  the  first  specified  Eppie,  then  about 
twelve  years  old,  as  a  child  suitable  for  them  to  adopt.  It 
had  never  occurred  to  him  that  Silas  would  rather  part  with 
his  life  than  with  Eppie.  Surely  the  weaver  would  wish  the 
best  to  the  child  he  had  taken  so  much  trouble  with,  and 
would  be  glad  that  such  good  fortune  should  happen  to  her : 
she  would  always  be  very  grateful  to  him,  and  he  would  be 
well  provided  for  to  the  end  of  his  life  —  provided  for  as  the 
excellent  part  he  had  done  by  the  child  deserved.  Was  it  not 
an  appropriate  thing  for  people  in  a  higher  station  to  take  a 
charge  off  the  hands  of  a  man  in  a  lower  ?  It  seemed  an  emi¬ 
nently  appropriate  thing  to  Godfrey,  for  reasons  that  were 
known  only  to  himself;  and  by  a  common  fallacy,  he  imagined 
the  measure  would  be  easy  because  he  had  private  motives  for 
desiring  it.  This  was  rather  a  coarse  mode  of  estimating 


SILAS  MARKER. 


877 


Silas’s  relation  to  Eppie ;  but  we  must  remember  that  many 
of  the  impressions  which  Godfrey  was  likely  to  gather  con¬ 
cerning  the  laboring  people  around  him  would  favor  the  idea 
that  deep  affections  can  hardly  go  along  with  callous  palms 
and  scant  means ;  and  he  had  not  had  the  opportunity,  even 
if  he  had  had  the  power,  of  entering  intimately  into  all  that 
was  ezceptional  in  the  weaver’s  experience.  It  was  only  the 
want  of  adequate  knowledge  that  could  have  made  it  possible 
for  Godfrey  deliberately  to  entertain  an  unfeeling  project : 
his  natural  kindness  had  outlived  that  blighting  time  of  cruel 
wishes,  and  Nancy’s  praise  of  him  as  a  husband  was  not 
founded  entirely  on  a  wilful  illusion. 

“I  was  right,”  she  said  to  herself,  when  she  had  recalled 
all  their  scenes  of  discussion  —  “I  feel  I  was  right  to  say  him 
nay,  though  it  hurt  me  more  than  anything ;  but  how  good 
Godfrey  has  been  about  it !  Many  men  would  have  been  very 
angry  with  me  for  standing  out  against  their  wishes  ;  and  they 
might  have  thrown  out  that  they ’d  had  ill-luck  in  marrying 
me  ;  but  Godfrey  has  never  been  the  man  to  say  me  an  un¬ 
kind  word.  It’s  only  what  he  can’t  hide:  everything  seems 
so  blank  to  him,  I  know ;  and  the  land  —  what  a  difference  it 
’ud  make  to  him,  when  he  goes  to  see  after  things,  if  he ’d 
children  growing  up  that  he  was  doing  it  all  for!  But  I  won’t 
murmur ;  and  perhaps  if  he ’d  married  a  woman  who ’d  have 
had  children,  she ’d  have  vexed  him  in  other  ways.” 

This  possibility  was  Nancy’s  chief  comfort ;  and  to  give  it 
greater  strength,  she  labored  to  make  it  impossible  that  any 
other  wife  should  have  had  more  perfect  tenderness.  She  had 
been  forced  to  vex  him  by  that  one  denial.  Godfrey  was  not 
insensible  to  her  loving  effort,  and  did  Nancy  no  injustice  as 
to  the  motives  of  her  obstinacy.  It  was  impossible  to  have 
lived  with  her  fifteen  years  and  not  be  aware  that  an  unselfish 
clinging  to  the  right,  and  a  sincerity  clear  as  the  flower-born 
dew,  were  her  main  characteristics ;  indeed,  Godfrey  felt  this 
so  strongly,  that  his  own  more  wavering  nature,  too  averse  to 
facing  difficulty  to  be  unvaryingly  simple  and  truthful,  was 
kept  in  a  certain  awe  of  this  gentle  wife  who  watched  his 
looks  with  a  yearning  to  obey  them.  It  seemed  to  him  impos- 


378 


SILAS  MARNER. 


sible  that  lie  should  ever  confess  to  her  the  truth  about  Eppie 
she  would  never  recover  from  the  repulsion  the  story  of  his 
earlier  marriage  would  create,  told  to  her  now,  after  that  long 
concealment.  And  the  child,  too,  he  thought,  must  become  an 
object  of  repulsion  :  the  very  sight  of  her  would  be  painful. 
The  shock  to  Nancy’s  mingled  pride  and  ignorance  of  the  world’s 
evil  might  even  be  too  much  for  her  delicate  frame.  Since  he 
had  married  her  with  that  secret  on  his  heart,  he  must  keep  it 
there  to  the  last.  Whatever  else  he  did,  he  could  not  make  an 
irreparable  breach  between  himself  and  this  long-loved  wife. 

Meanwhile,  why  could  he  not  make  up  his  mind  to  the 
absence  of  children  from  a  hearth  brightened  by  such  a  wife  ? 
Why  did  his  mind  fly  uneasily  to  that  void,  as  if  it  were  the 
sole  reason  why  life  was  not  thoroughly  joyous  to  him  ?  I 
suppose  it  is  the  way  with  all  men  and  women  who  reach 
middle  age  without  the  clear  perception  that  life  never  can  be 
thoroughly  joyous  :  under  the  vague  dulness  of  the  gray  hours, 
dissatisfaction  seeks  a  definite  object,  and  finds  it  in  the  priva¬ 
tion  of  an  untried  good.  Dissatisfaction  seated  musingly  on 
a  childless  hearth,  thinks  with  envy  of  the  father  whose 
return  is  greeted  by  young  voices  —  seated  at  the  meal  where 
the  little  heads  rise  one  above  another  like  nursery  plants, 
it  sees  a  black  care  hovering  behind  every  one  of  them,  and 
thinks  the  impulses  by  which  men  abandon  freedom,  and  seek 
for  ties,  are  surely  nothing  but  a  brief  madness.  In  Godfrey’s 
case  there  were  further  reasons  why  his  thoughts  should  be 
continually  solicited  by  this  one  point  in  his  lot :  his  con¬ 
science,  never  thoroughly  easy  about  Eppie,  now  gave  his 
childless  home  the  aspect  of  a  retribution  ;  and  as  the  time 
passed  on,  under  Nancy’s  refusal  to  adopt  her,  any  retrieval 
of  his  error  became  more  and  more  difficult. 

On  this  Sunday  afternoon  it  was  already  four  years  since 
there  had  been  any  allusion  to  the  subject  between  them,  and 
Nancy  supposed  that  it  was  forever  buried. 

“  I  wonder  if  he  ’ll  mind  it  less  or  more  as  he  gets  older,” 
she  thought j  “I’m  afraid  more.  Aged  people  feel  the  miss 
of  children:  what  would  father  do  without  Priscilla?  And 
if  I  die,  Godfrey  will  be  very  lonely  —  not  holding  together 


SILAS  MARKER. 


379 


with  his  brothers  much.  But  I  won’t  be  over-anxious,  and 
trying  to  make  things  out  beforehand  :  I  must  do  my  best  for 
the  present.” 

With  that  last  thought  Nancy  roused  herself  from  her 
revery,  and  turned  her  eyes  again  towards  the  forsaken  page. 
It  had  been  forsaken  longer  than  she  imagined,  for  she  was 
presently  surprised  by  the  appearance  of  the  servant  with  the 
tea-things.  It  was,  in  fact,  a  little  before  the  usual  time  for 
tea;  but  Jane  had  her  reasons. 

“  Is  your  master  come  into  the  yard,  Jane  ?  ” 

“No ’m,  he  isn’t,”  said  Jane,  with  a  slight  emphasis,  of 
which,  however,  her  mistress  took  no  notice. 

“  I  don’t  know  whether  you ’ve  seen  ’em,  ’m,”  continued 
Jane,  after  a  pause,  “  but  there ’s  folks  making  haste  all  one 
way,  afore  the  front  window.  I  doubt  something ’s  happened. 
There ’s  niver  a  man  to  be  seen  i’  the  yard,  else  I ’d  send  and 
see.  I ’ve  been  up  into  the  top  attic,  but  there ’s  no  seeing 
anything  for  trees.  I  hope  nobody ’s  hurt,  that ’s  all.” 

“  Oh,  no,  I  dare  say  there ’s  nothing  much  the  matter,”  said 
Nancy.  “  It ’s  perhaps  Mr.  Snell’s  bull  got  out  again,  as  he 
did  before.” 

“  I  wish  he  may  n’t  gore  anybody  then,  that ’s  all,”  said 
Jane,  not  altogether  despising  a  hypothesis  which  covered  a 
few  imaginary  calamities. 

“That  girl  is  always  terrifying  me,”  thought  Nancy;  “1 
wish  Godfrey  would  come  in.” 

She  went  to  the  front  window  and  looked  as  far  as  she 
could  see  along  the  road,  with  an  uneasiness  which  she  felt 
to  be  childish,  for  there  were  now  no  such  signs  of  excitement 
as  Jane  had  spoken  of,  and  Godfrey  would  not  be  likely  to 
return  by  the  village  road,  but  by  the  fields.  She  continued 
to  stand,  however,  looking  at  the  placid  churchyard  with  the 
long  shadows  of  the  gravestones  across  the  bright  green  hil¬ 
locks,  and  at  the  glowing  autumn  colors  of  the  Rectory  trees 
beyond.  Before  such  calm  external  beauty  the  presence  of  a 
vague  fear  is  more  distinctly  felt  —  like  a  raven  flapping  its 
alow  wing  across  the  sunny  air.  Nancy  wished  more  and 
more  that  Godfrey  would  come  in. 


.^80 


SILAS  MARNER. 


CHAPTER  XVm. 

Some  one  opened  the  door  at  the  other  end  of  the  room,  and 
Nancy  felt  that  it  was  her  husband.  She  turned  from  the 
window  with  gladness  in  her  eyes,  for  the  wife’s  chief  dread 
was  stilled. 

“Dear,  I’m  so  thankful  you’re  come,”  she  said,  going 
towards  him.  “  I  began  to  get  —  ” 

She  paused  abruptly,  for  Godfrey  was  laying  down  his  hat 
with  trembling  hands,  and  turned  towards  her  with  a  pale  face 
and  a  strange  unanswering  glance,  as  if  he  saw  her  indeed,  but 
saw  her  as  part  of  a  scene  invisible  to  herself.  She  laid  her 
hand  on  his  arm,  not  daring  to  speak  again ;  but  he  left  the 
touch  unnoticed,  and  threw  himself  into  his  chair. 

Jane  was  already  at  the  door  with  the  hissing  urn. 

“  Tell  her  to  keep  away,  will  you  ?  ”  said  Godfrey ;  and 
when  the  door  was  closed  again  he  exerted  himself  to  speak 
more  distinctly. 

“  Sit  down,  Nancy  —  there,”  he  said,  pointing  to  a  chair  op¬ 
posite  him.  “  I  came  back  as  soon  as  I  could,  to  hinder  any¬ 
body’s  telling  you  but  me.  I  ’ve  had  a  great  shock  —  but  I 
care  most  about  the  shock  it  ’ll  be  to  you.” 

“  It  is  n’t  father  and  Priscilla  ?  ”  said  Nancy,  with  quivering 
lips,  clasping  her  hands  together  tightly  on  her  lap. 

“  No,  it ’s  nobody  living,”  said  Godfrey,  unequal  to  the  con¬ 
siderate  skill  with  which  he  would  have  wished  to  make  his 
revelation.  “  It ’s  Dunstan  —  my  brother  Dunstan,  that  we 
lost  sight  of  sixteen  years  ago.  We’ve  found  him  —  found 
his  body  —  his  skeleton.” 

The  deep  dread  Godfrey’s  look  had  created  in  Nancy  made 
her  feel  these  words  a  relief.  She  sat  in  comparative  calmness 
to  hear  what  else  he  had  to  tell.  He  went  on  : 

“  The  Stone-pit  has  gone  dry  suddenly  —  from  the  draining, 
I  suppose;  and  there  he  lies  —  has  lain  for  sixteen  years, 


SILAS  MARKER. 


064 


wedged  between  two  great  stones.  There ’s  his  watch  and 
seals,  and  there ’s  my  gold-handled  hunting-whip,  with  my 
name  on:  he  took  it  away,  without  my  knowing,  the  day  he 
went  hunting  on  Wildfire,  the  last  time  he  was  seen.” 

Godfrey  paused :  it  was  not  so  easy  to  say  what  came  next. 

‘‘Do  you  think  he  drowned  himself  ?”  said  Nancy,  almost 
wondering  that  her  husband  should  be  so  deeply  shaken  by 
what  had  happened  all  those  years  ago  to  an  unloved  brother, 
of  whom  worse  things  had  been  augured. 

“No,  he  fell  in,”  said  Godfrey,  in  a  low  but  distinct  voice, 
as  if  he  felt  some  deep  meaning  in  the  fact.  Presently  he 
added :  “  Dunstan  was  the  man  that  robbed  Silas  Marner.” 

The  blood  rushed  to  Nancy’s  face  and  neck  at  this  surprise 
and  shame,  for  she  had  been  bred  up  to  regard  even  a  distant 
kinship  with  crime  as  a  dishonor. 

“  Oh,  Godfrey  !  ”  she  said,  with  compassion  in  her  tone,  for 
she  had  immediately  reflected  that  the  dishonor  must  be  felt 
still  more  keenly  by  her  husband. 

“There  was  the  money  in  the  pit,”  he  continued — “all  the 
weaver’s  money.  Everything ’s  been  gathered  up,  and  they  ’re 
taking  the  skeleton  to  the  Rainbow.  But  1  came  back  to  tell 
you  :  there  was  no  hindering  it ;  you  must  know.” 

He  was  silent,  looking  on  the  ground  for  two  long  minutes. 
Nancy  would  have  said  some  words  of  comfort  under  this  dis¬ 
grace,  but  she  refrained,  from  an  instinctive  sense  that  there 
was  something  behind — that  Godfrey  had  something  else  to 
tell  her.  Presently  he  lifted  his  eyes  to  her  face,  and  kept 
them  fixed  on  her,  as  he  said  — 

“  Everything  comes  to  light,  Nancy,  sooner  or  later.  When 
God  Almighty  wills  it,  our  secrets  are  found  out.  I ’ve  lived 
with  a  secret  on  my  mind,  but  I  ’ll  keep  it  from  you  no  longer. 
I  wouldn’t  have  you  know  it  by  somebody  else,  and  not  by 
me  —  I  would  n’t  have  you  find  it  out  after  I ’m  dead.  I  ’ll 
tell  you  now.  It’s  been  ‘I  will’  and  ‘I  won’t’ with  me  all 
my  life  —  I  ’ll  make  sure  of  myself  now.” 

Nancy’s  utmost  dread  had  returned.  The  eyes  of  the  hus¬ 
band  and  wife  met  with  awe  in  them,  as  at  a  crisis  which  sus¬ 
pended  affection. 


382 


SILAS  MARNER 


Nancy,”  said  Godfrey,  slowly,  <^wlien  I  married  you,  I  hid 
something  from  you  —  something  I  ought  to  have  told  you, 
That  woman  Marner  found  dead  in  the  snow  —  Eppie’s  mother 
—  that  wretched  woman — was  my  wife  :  Eppie  is  my  child.” 

He  paused,  dreading  the  effect  of  his  confession.  But  Nancy 
eat  quite  still,  only  that  her  eyes  dropped  and  ceased  to  meet 
Ais.  She  was  pale  and  quiet  as  a  meditative  statue,  clasping 
her  hands  on  her  lap. 

^‘You’ll  never  think  the  same  of  me  again,”  said  Godfrey, 
after  a  little  while,  with  some  tremor  in  his  voice. 

She  was  silent. 

“  I  ought  n’t  to  have  left  the  child  unowned  :  I  ought  n’t  to 
have  kept  it  from  you.  But  I  could  n’t  bear  to  give  you  up, 
Nancy.  I  was  led  away  into  marrying  her  —  I  suffered  for  it.” 

Still  Nancy  was  silent,  looking  down;  and  he  almost  ex¬ 
pected  that  she  would  presently  get  up  and  say  she  would  go 
to  her  father’s.  How  could  she  have  any  mercy  for  faults 
that  must  seem  so  black  to  her,  with  her  simple  severe 
notions  ? 

But  at  last  she  lifted  up  her  eyes  to  his  again  and  spoke. 
There  was  no  indignation  in  her  voice  —  only  deep  regret. 

‘‘Godfrey,  if  you  had  but  told  me  this  six  years  ago,  we 
could  have  done  some  of  our  duty  by  the  child.  Do  you  think 
I ’d  have  refused  to  take  her  in,  if  I ’d  known  she  was  yours  ?  ” 

At  that  moment  Godfrey  felt  all  the  bitterness  of  an  error 
that  was  not  simply  futile,  but  had  defeated  its  own  end.  He 
had  not  measured  this  wife  with  whom  he  had  lived  so  long. 
But  she  spoke  again,  with  more  agitation. 

“  And  —  oh,  Godfrey  —  if  we ’d  had  her  from  the  first,  if 
you ’d  taken  to  her  as  you  ought,  she ’d  have  loved  me  for  her 
mother  —  and  you ’d  have  been  happier  with  me  ;  I  could 
better  have  bore  my  little  baby  dying,  and  our  life  might  have 
been  more  like  what  we  used  to  think  it  ’ud  be.” 

The  tears  fell,  and  Nancy  ceased  to  speak. 

“  But  you  would  n’t  have  married  me  then,  Nancy,  if  I ’d 
told  you,”  said  Godfrey,  urged,  in  the  bitterness  of  his  self- 
reproach,  to  prove .  to  himself  that  his  conduct  had  not  been 
utter  folly.  “  You  may  think  you  would  now,  but  you 


SILAS  MAliNER. 


383 


would  n’t  then.  With  your  pride  and  your  father’s,  you ’d 
have  hated  having  anything  to  do  with  me  after  the  talk 
there ’d  have  been.” 

“  I  can’t  say  what  I  should  have  done  about  that,  Godfrey. 
1  should  never  have  married  anybody  else.  But  I  was  n’t 
worth  doing  wrong  for  —  nothing  is  in  this  world.  Nothing 
is  so  good  as  it  seems  beforehand  —  not  even  our  marrying 
wasn’t,  you  see.”  There  was  a  faint  sad  smile  on  Nancy’s 
face  as  she  said  the  last  words. 

“I’m  a  worse  man  than  you  thought  I  was,  Nancy,”  said 
Godfrey,  rather  tremulously.  “  Can  you  forgive  me  ever  ?  ” 

“  The  wrong  to  me  is  but  little,  Godfrey :  you ’ve  made  it 
up  to  me  —  you ’ve  been  good  to  me  for  fifteen  years.  It ’s 
another  you  did  the  wrong  to ;  and  I  doubt  it  can  never  be 
all  made  up  for.” 

“  But  we  can  take  Eppie  now,”  said  Godfrey.  “  I  won’t 
mind  the  world  knowing  at  last.  I  ’ll  be  plain  and  open  for 
the  rest  o’  my  life.” 

“  It  ’ll  be  different  coming  to  us,  now  she ’s  grown  up,”  said 
Nancy,  shaking  her  head  sadly.  “But  it’s  your  duty  to 
acknowledge  her  and  provide  for  her ;  and  I  ’ll  do  my  part  by 
her,  and  pray  to  God  Almighty  to  make  her  love  me.” 

“  Then  we  ’ll  go  together  to  Silas  Marner’s  this  very  night, 
as  soon  as  everything ’s  quiet  at  the  Stone-pits.” 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

Between  eight  and  nine  o’clock  that  evening,  Eppie  and 
Silas  were  seated  alone  in  the  cottage.  After  the  great  excite¬ 
ment  the  weaver  had  undergone  from  the  events  of  the  after¬ 
noon,  he  had  felt  a  longing  for  this  quietude,  and  had  even 
begged  Mrs.  Winthrop  and  Aaron,  who  had  naturally  lingered 
behind  every  one  else,  to  leave  him  alone  with  his  child.  The 
excitement  had  not  passed  away  :  it  had  only  reached  that 


384 


SILAS  MARNEB. 


Btage  when  the  keenness  of  the  susceptibility  makes  external 
stimulus  intolerable  —  when  there  is  no  sense  of  weariness, 
but  rather  an  intensity  of  inward  life,  under  which  sleep  is 
an  impossibility.  Any  one  who  has  watched  such  moments 
in  other  men  remembers  the  brightness  of  the  eyes  and  the 
strange  definiteness  that  comes  over  coarse  features  from  that 
transient  influence.  It  is  as  if  a  new  fineness  of  ear  for  all 
spiritual  voices  had  sent  wonder-working  vibrations  through 
the  heavy  mortal  frame  —  as  if  “  beauty  born  of  murmuring 
sound  ’’  had  passed  into  the  face  of  the  listener. 

Silas’s  face  showed  that  sort  of  transfiguration,  as  he  sat  in 
his  arm-chair  and  looked  at  Eppie.  She  had  drawn  her  own 
chair  towards  his  knees,  and  leaned  forward,  holding  both  his 
hands,  while  she  looked  up  at  him.  On  the  table  near  them, 
lit  by  a  candle,  lay  the  recovered  gold  —  the  old  long-loved 
gold,  ranged  in  orderly  heaps,  as  Silas  used  to  range  it  in  the 
days  when  it  was  his  only  joy.  He  had  been  telling  her  how 
he  used  to  count  it  every  night,  and  how  his  soul  was  utterly 
desolate  till  she  was  sent  to  him. 

“  At  first,  I ’d  a  sort  o’  feeling  come  across  me  now  and 
then,”  he  was  saying  in  a  subdued  tone,  “  as  if  you  might  be 
changed  into  the  gold  again;  for  sometimes,  turn  my  head 
which  way  I  would,  I  seemed  to  see  the  gold ;  and  I  thought 
I  should  be  glad  if  I  could  feel  it,  and  find  it  was  come  back. 
But  that  did  n’t  last  long.  After  a  bit,  I  should  have  thought 
it  was  a  curse  come  again,  if  it  had  drove  you  from  me,  for 
I ’d  got  to  feel  the  need  o’  your  looks  and  your  voice  and  the 
touch  o’  your  little  fingers.  You  didn’t  know  then,  Eppie, 
when  you  were  such  a  little  un  —  you  did  n’t  know  what  your 
old  father  Silas  felt  for  you.” 

“  But  I  know  now,  father,”  said  Eppie.  “  If  it  had  n’t  been 
for  you,  they ’d  have  taken  me  to  the  workhouse,  and  there ’d 
have  been  nobody  to  love  me.” 

‘‘  Eh,  my  precious  child,  the  blessing  was  mine.  If  you 
had  n’t  been  sent  to  save  me,  I  should  ha’  gone  to  the  grave 
in  my  misery.  The  money  was  taken  away  from  me  in  time ; 
and  you  see  it ’s  been  kept  —  kept  till  it  was  wanted  for  you, 
It ’s  wonderful  —  our  life  is  wonderful.” 


SILAS  MAKNEB. 


885 


Silas  sat  in  silence  a  few  minutes,  looking  at  the  money. 
“It  takes  no  hold  of  me  now,”  he  said,  ponderingly  —  “the 
money  does  n’t.  I  wonder  if  it  ever  could  again  —  I  doubt 
it  might,  if  1  lost  you,  Eppie.  I  might  come  to  think  I 
was  forsaken  again,  and  lose  the  feeling  that  God  was  good 
to  me.” 

At  that  moment  there  was  a  knocking  at  the  door ;  and 
Eppie  was  obliged  to  rise  without  answering  Silas.  Beautiful 
she  looked,  with  the  tenderness  of  gathering  tears  in  her  eyes 
and  a  slight  flush  on  her  cheeks,  as  she  stepped  to  open  the 
door.  The  flush  deepened  when  she  saw  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Godfrey 
Cass.  She  made  her  little  rustic  curtsy,  and  held  the  door 
wide  for  them  to  enter. 

“We  ’re  disturbing  you  very  late,  my  dear,”  said  Mrs.  Cass, 
taking  Eppie’s  hand,  and  looking  in  her  face  with  an  expres¬ 
sion  of  anxious  interest  and  admiration.  Nancy  herself  was 
pale  and  tremulous. 

Eppie,  after  placing  chairs  for  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cass,  went  to 
stand  against  Silas,  opposite  to  them. 

“Well,  Marner,”  said  Godfrey,  trying  to  speak  with  perfect 
firmness,  “it’s  a  great  comfort  to  me  to  see  you  with  your 
money  again,  that  you ’ve  been  deprived  of  so  many  years.  It 
was  one  of  my  family  did  you  the  wrong  —  the  more  grief  to 
me  —  and  I  feel  bound  to  make  up  to  you  for  it  in  every  way. 
Whatever  I  can  do  for  you  will  be  nothing  but  paying  a  debt, 
even  if  I  looked  no  further  than  the  robbery.  But  there  are 
other  things  I ’m  beholden  —  shall  be  beholden  to  you  for, 
Marner.” 

Godfrey  checked  himself.  It  had  been  agreed  between  him 
and  his  wife  that  the  subject  of  his  fatherhood  should  be  ap¬ 
proached  very  carefully,  and  that,  if  possible,  the  disclosure 
should  be  reserved  for  the  future,  so  that  it  might  be  made  to 
Eppie  gradually.  Nancy  had  urged  this,  because  she  felt 
strongly  the  painful  light  in  which  Eppie  must  inevitably  see 
the  relation  between  her  father  and  mother. 

Silas,  always  ill  at  ease  when  he  was  being  spoken  to  by 
“betters,”  such  as  Mr.  Cass  —  tall,  powerful,  florid  men,  seen 
chiefly  on  horseback  —  answered  with  some  constraint  — 


386 


SILAS  MARNEE. 


“  Sir,  I  We  a  deal  to  thank  you  for  a’ready.  As  for  the  rob¬ 
bery,  I  count  it  no  loss  to  me.  And  if  I  did,  you  could  n’t  help 
it :  you  are  n’t  answerable  for  it.” 

“  You  may  look  at  it  in  that  way,  Marner,  but  I  never  can  ; 
and  I  hope  you  ’ll  let  me  act  according  to  my  own  feeling  of 
what’s  just.  I  know  you’re  easily  contented:  you’ve  been 
a  hard-working  man  all  your  life.” 

“Yes,  sir,  yes,”  said  Marner,  meditatively.  “I  should  ha’ 
been  bad  off  without  my  work :  it  was  what  I  held  by  when 
everything  else  was  gone  from  me.” 

“Ah,”  said  Godfrey,  applying  Marner’s  words  simply  to  his 
bodily  wants,  “it  was  a  good  trade  for  you  in  this  country, 
because  there ’s  been  a  great  deal  of  linen-weaving  to  be  done. 
But  you  ’re  getting  rather  past  such  close  work,  Marner :  it ’s 
time  you  laid  by  and  had  some  rest.  You  look  a  good  deal 
pulled  down,  though  you  ’re  not  an  old  man,  are  you  ?  ” 

“  Fifty-five,  as  near  as  I  can  say,  sir,”  said  Silas. 

“  Oh,  why,  you  may  live  thirty  years  longer  —  look  at  old 
Macey !  And  that  money  on  the  table,  after  all,  is  but  little. 
It  won’t  go  far  either  way  —  whether  it ’s  put  out  to  interest, 
or  you  were  to  live  on  it  as  long  as  it  would  last :  it  would  n’t 
go  far  if  you ’d  nobody  to  keep  but  yourself,  and  you ’ve  had 
two  to  keep  for  a  good  manj'^  years  now.” 

“Eh,  sir,”  said  Silas,  unaffected  by  anything  Godfrey  was 
saying,  “  I ’m  in  no  fear  o’  want.  We  shall  do  very  well  — 
Eppie  and  me  ’ull  do  well  enough.  There ’s  few  working-folks 
have  got  so  much  laid  by  as  that.  I  don’t  know  what  it  is  to 
gentlefolks,  but  I  look  upon  it  as  a  deal  —  almost  too  much. 
And  as  for  us,  it’s  little  we  want.” 

“  Only  the  garden,  father,”  said  Eppie,  blushing  up  to  the 
ears  the  moment  after. 

“  You  love  a  garden,  do  you,  my  dear  ?  ”  said  Nancy,  think¬ 
ing  that  this  turn  in  the  point  of  view  might  help  her  husband. 
“We  should  agree  in  that :  I  give  a  deal  of  time  to  the 
garden.” 

“  Ah,  there ’s  plenty  of  gardening  at  the  Red  House,”  said 
Godfrey,  surprised  at  the  difficulty  he  found  in  approaching  a 
proposition  which  had  seemed  so  easy  to  him  in  the  distance. 


SILAS  MARNEK. 


387 


You  Ve  done  a  good  part  by  Eppie,  Marner,  for  sixteen  years. 
It  ’ud  be  a  great  comfort  to  you  to  see  her  well  provided  for, 
would  n’t  it  ?  She  looks  blooming  and  healthy,  but  not  fit  for 
any  hardships ;  she  does  n’t  look  like  a  strapping  girl  come  of 
working  parents.  You ’d  like  to  see  her  taken  care  of  by  those 
who  can  leave  her  well  off,  and  make  a  lady  of  her ;  she ’s 
more  fit  for  it  than  for  a  rough  life,  such  as  she  might  come 
to  have  in  a  few  years’  time.” 

A  slight  flush  came  over  Marner’s  face,  and  disappeared,  like 
a  passing  gleam.  Eppie  was  simply  wondering  Mr.  Cass 
should  talk  so  about  things  that  seemed  to  have  nothing  to  do 
with  reality,  but  Silas  was  hurt  and  uneasy. 

‘‘  I  doi?’t  take  your  meaning,  sir,”  he  answered,  not  having 
words  at  command  to  express  the  mingled  feelings  with  which 
he  had  heard  Mr.  Cass’s  words. 

“  Well,  my  meaning  is  this,  Marner,”  said  Godfrey,  deter¬ 
mined  to  come  to  the  point.  ‘‘Mrs.  Cass  and  I,  you  know, 
have  no  children  —  nobody  to  be  the  better  for  our  good  home 
and  everything  else  we  have  —  more  than  enough  for  ourselves. 
And  we  should  like  to  have  somebody  in  the  place  of  a  daugh¬ 
ter  to  us  —  we  should  like  to  have  Eppie,  and  treat  her  in 
every  way  as  our  own  child.  It  ’ud  be  a  great  comfort  to  you 
in  your  old  age,  I  hope,  to  see  her  fortune  made  in  that  way, 
after  you ’ve  been  at  the  trouble  of  bringing  her  up  so  well. 
And  it ’s  right  you  should  have  every  reward  for  that.  And 
Eppie,  I ’m  sure,  will  always  love  you  and  be  grateful  to  you : 
she ’d  come  and  see  you  very  often,  and  we  should  all  be  on 
the  look-out  to  do  everything  we  could  towards  making  you 
comfortable.” 

A  plain  man  like  Godfrey  Cass,  speaking  under  some  embar¬ 
rassment,  necessarily  blunders  on  words  that  are  coarser  than 
his  intentions,  and  that  are  likely  to  fall  gratingly  on  suscep¬ 
tible  feelings.  While  he  had  been  speaking,  Eppie  had  quietly 
passed  her  arm  behind  Silas’s  head,  and  let  her  hand  rest 
against  it  caressingly :  she  felt  him  trembling  violently.  He 
was  silent  for  some  moments  when  Mr.  Cass  had  ended  — • 
powerless  under  the  conflict  of  emotions,  all  alike  painful. 
Eppie’s  heart  was  swelling  at  the  sense  that  her  father  was  in 


388 


SILAS  MARNER. 


distress ;  and  she  was  just  going  to  lean  down  and  speak  to 
him,  when  one  struggling  dread  at  last  gained  the  uaastery 
over  every  other  in  Silas,  and  he  said,  faintly  — 

“Eppie,  my  child,  speak.  I  won’t  stand  in  your  way. 
Thank  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cass.” 

Eppie  took  her  hand,  from  her  father’s  head,  and  came 
forward  a  step.  Her  cheeks  were  flushed,  but  not  with 
shyness  this  time :  the  sense  that  her  father  was  in  doubt 
and  suffering  banished  that  sort  of  self-consciousness.  She 
dropped  a  low  curtsy,  first  to  Mrs.  Cass  and  then  to  Mr.  Cass, 
and  said  — 

“  Thank  you,  ma  ’am  —  thank  you,  sir.  But  I  can’t  leave 
my  father,  nor  own  anybody  nearer  than  him.  And  I  don’t 
want  to  be  a  lady  —  thank  you  all  the  same  ”  (here  Eppie 
dropped  another  curtsy).  “  I  could  n’t  give  up  the  folks  1  ’ve 
been  used  to.” 

Eppie’s  lip  began  to  tremble  a  little  at  the  last  words.  She 
retreated  to  her  father’s  chair  again,  and  held  him  round  the 
neck :  while  Silas,  with  a  subdued  sob,  put  up  his  hand  to 
grasp  hers. 

The  tears  were  in  Nancy’s  eyes,  but  her  sympathy  with 
Eppie  was,  naturally,  divided  with  distress  on  her  husband’s 
account.  She  dared  not  speak,  wondering  what  was  going  on 
in  her  husband’s  mind. 

Godfrey  felt  an  irritation  inevitable  to  almost  all  of  us  when 
we  encounter  an  unexpected  obstacle.  He  had  been  full  of 
his  own  penitence  and  resolution  to  retrieve  his  error  as  far  as 
the  time  was  left  to  him ;  he  was  possessed  with  all-important 
feelings,  that  were  to  lead  to  a  predetermined  course  of  action 
which  he  had  fixed  on  as  the  right,  and  he  was  not  prepared 
to  enter  with  lively  appreciation  into  other  people’s  •feelings 
counteracting  his  virtuous  resolves.  The  agitation  with  which 
he  spoke  again  was  not  quite  unmixed  with  anger. 

“  But  I ’ve  a  claim  on  you,  Eppie  —  the  strongest  of  all 
claims.  It ’s  my  duty,  Marner,  to  own  Eppie  as  my  child,  and 
provide  for  her.  She ’s  my  own  child :  her  mother  was  my 
wife.  I ’ve  a  natural  claim  on  her  that  must  stand  before 
every  other.” 


SILAS  MARNER. 


889 


Eppie  liad  given  a  violent  start,  and  turned  quite  pale. 
Silas,  on  the  contrary,  who  had  been  relieved,  by  Eppie’s  an¬ 
swer,  from  the  dread  lest  his  mind  should  be  in  opposition  to 
hers,  felt  the  spirit  of  resistance  in  him  set  free,  not  without  a 
touch  of  parental  fierceness.  “  Then,  sir,”  he  answered,  with 
an  accent  of  bitterness  that  had  been  silent  in  him  since  the 
memorable  day  when  his  youthful  hope  had  perished  —  “  then, 
sir,  why  did  n’t  you  say  so  sixteen  year  ago,  and  claim  her 
before  I ’d  come  to  love  her,  i  ’stead  o’  coming  to  take  her  from 
me  now,  when  you  might  as  well  take  the  heart  out  o’  my 
body  ?  God  gave  her  to  me  because  you  turned  your  back 
upon  her,  and  He  looks  upon  her  as  mine :  you  ’ve  no  right  to 
her  !  When  a  man  turns  a  blessing  from  his  door,  it  falls  to 
them  as  take  it  in.” 

“  I  know  that,  Marner.  I  was  wrong.  I ’ve  repented  of  my 
conduct  in  that  matter,”  said  Godfrey,  who  could  not  help 
feeling  the  edge  of  Silas’s  words. 

“  I ’m  glad  to  hear  it,  sir,”  said  Marner,  with  gathering  ex¬ 
citement  ;  “  but  repentance  does  n’t  alter  what ’s  been  going  on 
for  sixteen  year.  Your  coming  now  and  saying  ‘  I ’m  her  father,' 
does  n’t  alter  the  feelings  inside  us.  It ’s  me  she ’s  been  cab 
ing  her  father  ever  since  she  could  say  the  word.” 

“But  I  think  you  might  look  at  the  thing  more  reason¬ 
ably,  Marner,”  said  Godfrey,  unexpectedly  awed  by  th 
weaver’s  direct  truth-speaking.  “  It  is  n’t  as  if  she  was  to  be 
taken  quite  away  from  you,  so  that  you ’d  never  see  her  again. 
She  ’ll  be  very  near  you,  and  come  to  see  you  very  often. 
She  ’ll  feel  just  the  same  towards  you.” 

“  Just  the  same  ?  ”  said  Marner,  more  bitterly  than  ever. 
“  How  ’ll  she  feel  just  the  same  for  me  as  she  does  now,  when 
we  eat  o’  the  same  bit,  and  drink  o’  the  same  cup,  and  think  o’ 
the  same  things  from  one  day’s  end  to  another?  Just  the 
same  ?  That ’s  idle  talk.  You’d  cut  us  i’  two.” 

Godfrey,  unqualified  by  experience  to  discern  the  pregnancy 
of  Marner’s  simple  words,  felt  rather  angry  again.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  the  weaver  was  very  selfish  (a  judgment  readily 
passed  by  those  who  have  never  tested  their  own  power  of 
sacrifice)  to  oppose  what  was  undoubtMly  for  Eppie’s  welfare; 


890 


SILAS  MARNER. 


and  he  felt  himself  called  upon,  for  her  sake,  to  assert  his 
authority. 

“  I  should  have  thought,  Marner,”  he  said,  severely  —  “I 
should  have  thought  your  affection  for  Eppie  would  make 
you  rejoice  in  what  was  for  her  good,  even  if  it  did  call  upon 
you  to  give  up  something.  You  ought  to  remember  your 
own  life ’s  uncertain,  and  she ’s  at  an  age  now  when  her  lot 
may  soon  be  fixed  in  a  way  very  different  from  what  it 
would  be  in  her  father’s  home  :  she  may  marry  some  low 
working-man,  and  then,  whatever  I  might  do  for  her,  I  could 
n’t  make  her  well-off.  You  ’re  putting  yourself  in  the  way 
of  her  welfare  ;  and  though  I ’m  sorry  to  hurt  you  after  what 
you ’ve  done,  and  what  I ’ve  left  undone,  I  feel  now  it ’s  my 
duty  to  insist  on  taking  care  of  my  own  daughter.  I  want  to 
do  my  duty.” 

It  would  be  difficult  to  say  whether  it  were  Silas  or  Eppie 
that  was  more  deeply  stirred  by  this  last  speech  of  Godfrey’s. 
Thought  had  been  very  busy  in  Eppie  as  she  listened  to  the 
contest  between  her  old  long-loved  father  and  this  new  unfa¬ 
miliar  father  who  had  suddenly  come  to  fill  the  place  of  that 
black  featureless  shadow  which  had  held  the  ring  and  placed 
it  on  her  mother’s  finger.  Her  imagination  had  darted  back¬ 
ward  in  conjectures,  and  forward  in  previsions,  of  what  this 
revealed  fatherhood  implied ;  and  there  were  words  in  God¬ 
frey’s  last  speech  which  helped  to  make  the  previsions  espe¬ 
cially  definite.  Not  that  these  thoughts,  either  of  past  or 
future,  determined  her  resolution  —  ^ha^  was  determined  by 
the  feelings  which  vibrated  to  every  word  Silas  had  uttered ; 
but  they  raised,  even  apart  from  these  feelings,  a  repulsion 
towards  the  offered  lot  and  the  newly-revealed  father. 

Silas,  on  the  other  hand,  was  again  stricken  in  conscience, 
and  alarmed  lest  Godfrey’s  accusation  should  be  true — lest  he 
should  be  raising  his  own  will  as  an  obstacle  to  Eppie’s  good. 
For  many  moments  he  was  mute,  struggling  for  the  self-con¬ 
quest  necessary  to  the  uttering  of  the  difficult  words.  They 
came  out  tremulously. 

“  I  ’ll  say  no  more.  Let  it  be  as  you  will.  Speak  to  th® 
child.  I’ll  hinder  nothing.” 


SILAS  MAKNLR. 


891 


Even  Nancy,  with  all  the  acute  sensibility  of  her  own  affec¬ 
tions,  shared  her  husband’s  view,  that  Marner  was  not  justi¬ 
fiable  iu  his  wish  to  retain  Eppie,  after  her  real  father  had 
avowed  himself.  She  felt  that  it  was  a  very  hard  trial  for 
the  poor  weaver,  but  her  code  allowed  no  question  that  a 
father  by  blood  must  have  a  claim  above  that  of  any  foster- 
father.  Besides,  Nancy,  used  all  her  life  to  plenteous  circum¬ 
stances  and  the  privileges  of  “  respectability,”  could  not  enter 
into  the  pleasures  which  early  nurture  and  habit  connect  with 
all  the  little  aims  and  efforts  of  the  poor  who  are  born  poor : 
to  her  mind  Eppie,  in  being  restored  to  her  birthright,  was 
entering  on  a  too  long  withheld  but  unquestionable  good. 
Hence  she  heard  Silas’s  last  words  with  relief,  and  thought, 
as  Godfrey  did,  that  their  wish  was  achieved. 

“Eppie,  my  dear,”  said  Godfrey,  looking  at  his  daughter, 
not  without  some  embarrassment,  under  the  sense  that  she 
was  old  enough  to  judge  him,  “  it  ’ll  always  be  our  wish  that 
you  should  show  your  love  and  gratitude  to  one  who ’s  been  a 
father  to  you  so  many  years,  and  we  shall  want  to  help  you 
to  make  him  comfortable  in  every  way.  But  we  hope  you’ll 
come  to  love  us  as  well ;  and  though  I  have  n’t  been  what  a 
father  should  ha’  been  to  you  all  these  years,  I  wish  to  do  the 
utmost  in  my  power  for  you  for  the  rest  of  my  life,  and  pro¬ 
vide  for  you  as  my  only  child.  And  you’ll  have  the  best  of 
mothers  in  my  wife — that  ’ll  be  a  blessing  you  have  n’t  known 
since  you  were  old  enough  to  know  it.” 

“My  dear,  you’ll  be  a  treasure  to  me,”  said  Nancy,  in  her 
gentle  voice.  “  We  shall  want  for  nothing  when  we  have  our 
daughter.” 

Eppie  did  not  come  forward  and  curtsy,  as  she  had  done 
before.  She  held  Silas’s  hand  in  hers,  and  grasped  it  firmly 
—  it  was  a  weaver’s  hand,  with  a  palm  and  finger-tips  that 
were  sensitive  to  such  pressure  —  while  she  spoke  with  colder 
decision  than  before. 

“Thank  you,  ma’am  —  thank  you,  sir,  for  your  offers  — 
they’re  very  great,  and  far  above  my  wish.  For  I  should 
have  no  delight  i’  life  any  more  if  1  was  forced  to  go  away 
fjrom  my  father,  and  knew  he  was  sitting  at  home,  a-thinking 


392 


SILAS  MAKNEH. 


of  me  and  feeling  lone.  WeVe  been  used  to  be  happy  to¬ 
gether  every  day,  and  I  can’t  think  o’  no  happiness  without 
him.  And  he  says  he ’d  nobody  i’  the  world  till  I  was  sent 
to  him,  and  he ’d  have  nothing  when  I  was  gone.  And  he ’s 
took  care  of  me  and  loved  me  from  the  first,  and  I  ’ll  cleave  to 
him  as  long  as  he  lives,  and  nobody  shall  ever  come  between 
him  and  me.” 

“  But  you  must  make  sure,  Eppie,”  said  Silas,  in  a  low  voice 
—  “  you  must  make  sure  as  you  won’t  ever  be  sorry,  because 
you ’ve  made  your  choice  to  stay  among  poor  folks,  and  with 
poor  clothes  and  things,  when  you  might  ha’  had  everything 
o’  the  best.” 

His  sensitiveness  on  this  point  had  increased  as  he  listened 
to  Eppie’s  words  of  faithful  affection. 

“I  can  never  be  sorry,  father,”  said  Eppie.  “I  shouldn’t 
know  what  to  think  on  or  to  wish  for  with  fine  things  about 
me,  as  I  have  n’t  been  used  to.  And  it  ’ud  be  poor  work  for 
me  to  put  on  things,  and  ride  in  a  gig,  and  sit  in  a  place  at 
church,  as  ’ud  make  them  as  I ’m  fond  of  think  me  unfitting 
company  for  ’em.  What  could  I  care  for  then  ?  ” 

Nancy  looked  at  Godfrey  with  a  pained  questioning  glance. 
But  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  floor,  where  he  was  moving  the 
end  of  his  stick,  as  if  he  were  pondering  on  something  ab¬ 
sently.  She  thought  there  was  a  word  which  might  perhaps 
come  better  from  her  lips  than  from  his. 

‘‘  What  you  say  is  natural,  my  dear  child  —  it ’s  natural  you 
should  cling  to  those  who’ve  brought  you  up,”  she  said, 
mildly ;  “  but  there ’s  a  duty  you  owe  to  your  lawful  father. 
There ’s  perhaps  something  to  be  given  up  on  more  sides  than 
one.  When  your  father  opens  his  home  to  you,  I  think  it’s 
right  you  shouldn’t  turn  your  back  on  it.” 

“  I  can’t  feel  as  I ’ve  got  any  father  but  one,”  said  Eppie, 
impetuously,  while  the  tears  gathered.  “I’ve  always  thought 
of  a  little  home  where  he ’d  sit  i’  the  corner,  and  I  should 
fend  and  do  everything  for  him :  I  can’t  think  o’  no  other 
home.  I  was  n’t  brought  up  to  be  a  lady,  and  I  can’t  turn  my 
mind  to  it.  I  like  the  working-folks,  and  their  victuals,  and 
their  ways.  And,”  she  ended  passionately,  while  the  tears 


SILAS  MAKNER. 


893 


fell,  promised  to  many  a  working-man,  as  ’ll  live  with 

father,  and  help  me  to  take  care  of  him.” 

Godfrey  looked  up  at  Nancy  with  a  flushed  face  and  smart¬ 
ing  dilated  eyes.  This  frustration  of  a  purpose  towards  which 
he  had  set  out  under  the  exalted  consciousness  that  he  was 
about  to  compensate  in  some  degree  for  the  greatest  demerit 
of  his  life,  made  him  feel  the  air  of  the  room  stifling. 

“  Let  us  go,”  he  said,  in  an  uiider-tone. 

“We  won’t  talk  of  this  any  longer  now,”  said  Nancy,  rising. 
“  We’re  your  well-wishers,  my  dear  —  and  yours  too,  Marner. 
We  shall  come  and  see  you  again.  It ’s  getting  late  now.” 

In  this  way  she  covered  her  husband’s  abrupt  departure,  for 
Godfrey  had  gone  straight  to  the  door,  unable  to  say  more. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

Nancy  and  Godfrey  walked  home  under  the  starlight  in 
silence.  When  they  entered  the  oaken  parlor,  Godfrey  threw 
himself  into  his  chair,  while  Nancy  laid  down  her  bonnet  and 
shawl,  and  stood  on  the  hearth  near  her  husband,  unwilling 
to  leave  him  even  for  a  few  minutes,  and  yet  fearing  to  utter 
any  word  lest  it  might  jar  on  his  feeling.  At  last  Godfrey 
turned  his  head  towards  her,  and  their  eyes  met,  dwelling  in 
that  meeting  without  any  movement  on  either  side.  That 
quiet  mutual  gaze  of  a  trusting  husband  and  wife  is  like  the 
first  moment  of  rest  or  refuge  from  a  great  weariness  or  a 
great  danger  —  not  to  be  interfered  with  by  speech  or  action 
which  would  distract  the  sensations  from  the  fresh  enjoyment 
of  repose. 

But  presently  he  put  out  his  hand,  and  as  Nancy  placed 
hers  within  it,  he  drew  her  towards  him,  and  said  — 

“  That ’s  ended  !  ” 

She  bent  to  kiss  him,  and  then  said,  as  she  stood  by  hia 
aide,  “Yes,  I’m  afraid  we  must  give  up  the  hope  of  having 


894 


SILAS  MAENER. 


her  for  a  daughter.  It  would  n’t  be  right  to  want  to  force 
her  to  come  to  us  against  her  will.  We  can’t  alter  her  bring¬ 
ing  up  and  what ’s  come  of  it.” 

‘^No,”  said  Godfrey,  with  a  keen  decisiveness  of  tone,  in 
contrast  with  his  usually  careless  and  nnemphatic  speech  — 
“  there ’s  debts  we  can’t  pay  like  money  debts,  by  paying 
extra  for  the  years  that  have  slipped  by.  While  I ’ve  been 
putting  off  and  putting  off,  the  trees  have  been  growing  — 
it ’s  too  late  now.  Marner  was  in  the  right  in  what  he  said 
about  a  man’s  turning  away  a  blessing  from  his  door  :  it  falls 
to  somebody  else.  I  wanted  to  pass  for  childless  once,  Nancy 
—  I  shall  pass  for  childless  now  against  my  wish.” 

Nancy  did  not  speak  immediately,  but  after  a  little  while 
she  asked  —  “  You  won’t  make  it  known,  then,  about  Eppie’s 
being  your  daughter  ?  ” 

“  No  :  where  would  be  the  good  to  anybody  ?  —  only  harm. 
I  must  do  what  I  can  for  her  in  the  state  of  life  she  chooses. 
I  must  see  who  it  is  she ’s  thinking  of  marrying.” 

“  If  it  won’t  do  any  good  to  make  the  thing  known,”  said 
Nancy,  who  thought  she  might  now  allow  herself  the  relief  of 
entertaining  a  feeling  which  she  had  tried  to  silence  before,  ‘‘I 
should  be  very  thankful  for  father  and  Priscilla  never  to  be 
troubled  with  knowing  what  was  done  in  the  past,  more  than 
about  Dunsey  :  it  can’t  be  helped,  their  knowing  that.” 

“  I  shall  put  it  in  my  will  —  I  think  I  shall  put  it  in  my 
will.  I  should  n’t  like  to  leave  anything  to  be  found  out, 
like  this  about  Dunsey,”  said  Godfrey,  meditatively.  “  But  I 
can’t  see  anything  but  difficulties  that  ’ud  come  from  telling 
it  now.  I  must  do  what  I  can  to  make  her  happy  in  her 
own  way.  I ’ve  a  notion,”  he  added,  after  a  moment’s  pause, 
it ’s  Aaron  Winthrop  she  meant  she  was  engaged  to.  I 
remember  seeing  him  with  her  and  Marner  going  away  from 
church.” 

“  Well,  he ’s  very  sober  and  industrious,”  said  Nancy,  try¬ 
ing  to  view  the' matter  as  cheerfully  as  possible. 

Godfrey  fell  into  thoughtfulness  again.  Presently  he  looked 
up  at  Nancy  sorrowfully,  and  said  — 

“  She ’s  a  very  pretty,  nice  girl,  is  n’t  she,  Nancy  ?  ” 


SILAS  MAENER.  89.'^ 

"Yes,  dear  ;  and  with  just  your  hair  and  eyes :  I  wondered 
it  had  never  struck  me  before.” 

"  I  think  she  took  a  dislike  to  me  at  the  thought  of  my  being 
her  father  :  I  could  see  a  change  in  her  manner  after  that.” 

"  She  could  n’t  bear  to  think  of  not  looking  on  Marner  as 
her  father,”  said  Nancy,  not  wishing  to  confirm  her  husband’s 
painful  impression. 

“  She  thinks  I  did  wrong  by  her  mother  as  well  as  by  her. 
She  thinks  me  worse  than  I  am.  But  she  must  think  it :  she 
can  never  know  all.  It’s  part  of  my  punishment,  Nancy,  for 
my  daughter  to  dislike  me.  I  should  never  have  got  into  that 
trouble  if  I ’d  been  true  to  you  —  if  I  had  n’t  been  a  fool. 
I ’d  no  right  to  expect  anything  but  evil  could  come  of  that 
marriage  —  and  when  I  shirked  doing  a  father’s  part  too.” 

Nancy  was  silent :  her  spirit  of  rectitude  would  not  let  her 
try  to  soften  the  edge  of  what  she  felt  to  be  a  just  compunc¬ 
tion.  He  spoke  again  after  a  little  while,  but  the  tone  was 
rather  changed :  there  was  tenderness  mingled  with  the  pre¬ 
vious  self-reproach. 

“  And  I  got  you,  Nancy,  in  spite  of  all ;  and  yet  1  ’ve  been 
grumbling  and  uneasy  because  I  had  n’t  something  else  —  as 
if  I  deserved  it.” 

"  You ’ve  never  been  wanting  to  me,  Godfrey,”  said  Nancy, 
with  quiet  sincerity.  ‘‘  My  only  trouble  would  be  gone  if  you 
resigned  yourself  to  the  lot  that ’s  been  given  us.” 

"  Well,  perhaps  it  is  n’t  too  late  to  mend  a  bit  there. 
Though  it  is  too  late  to  mend  some  things,  say  what  they 
will.” 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

The  next  morning,  when  Silas  and  Eppie  were  seated  at 
their  breakfast,  he  said  to  her  — 

“  Eppie,  there ’s  a  thing  I ’ve  had  on  my  mind  to  do  this 
two  year,  and  now  the  money ’s  been  brought  back  to  us,  we 


396 


SILAS  MARNER. 


can  do  it.  I  Ve  been  turning  it  over  and  over  in  the  nigbt, 
and  I  think  we  ’ll  set  out  to-morrow,  while  the  fine  days  last. 
We  ’ll  leave  the  house  and  everything  for  your  godmother  to 
take  care  on,  and  we  ’ll  make  a  little  bundle  o’  things  and  set 
out.” 

Where  to  go,  daddy  ?  ”  said  Eppie,  in  much  surprise. 

“  To  my  old  country  —  to  the  town  where  I  was  born  — 
up  Lantern  Yard.  I  want  to  see  Mr.  Paston,  the  minister: 
something  may  ha’  come  out  to  make  ’em  know  I  was  inni- 
cent  o’  the  robbery.  And  Mr.  Paston  was  a  man  with  a 
deal  o’  light  —  I  want  to  speak  to  him  about  the  drawing 
o’  the  lots.  And  I  should  like  to  talk  to  him  about  the 
religion  o’  this  country-side,  for  I  partly  think  he  does  n’t 
know  on  it.” 

Eppie  was  very  joyful,  for  there  was  the  prospect  not  only 
of  wonder  and  delight  at  seeing  a  strange  country,  but  also  of 
coming  back  to  tell  Aaron  all  about  it.  Aaron  was  so  much 
wiser  than  she  was  about  most  things  —  it  would  be  rather 
pleasant  to  have  this  little  advantage  over  him.  Mrs.  Wim 
throp,  though  possessed  with  a  dim  fear  of  dangers  attendant 
on  so  long  a  journey,  and  requiring  many  assurances  that  it 
would  not  take  them  out  of  the  region  of  carriers’  carts  and 
slow  wagons,  was  nevertheless  well  pleased  that  Silas  should 
revisit  his  own  country,  and  find  out  if  he  had  been  cleared 
from  that  false  accusation. 

‘‘  You ’d  be  easier  in  your  mind  for  the  rest  o’  your  life. 
Master  Marner,”  said  Dolly  —  “  that  you  would.  And  if 
there ’s  any  light  to  be  got  up  the  Yard  as  you  talk  on,  we  ’ve 
need  of  it  i’  this  world,  and  I ’d  be  glad  on  it  myself,  if  you 
could  bring  it  back.” 

So  on  the  fourth  day  from  that  time,  Silas  and  Eppie,  in 
their  Sunday  clothes,  with  a  small  bundle  tied  in  a  blue  linen 
Jiandkerchief,  were  making  their  way  through  the  streets  of 
a  great  manufacturing  town.  Silas,  bewildered  by  the  changes 
thirty  years  had  brought  over  his  native  place,  had  stopped 
several  persons  in  succession  to  ask  them  the  name  of  this 
town,  that  he  might  be  sure  he  was  not  under  a  mistake 
about  it. 


SIJ^AS  MAKNEK. 


o97 

"Ask  for  Lantern  Yard,  father  —  ask  this  gentleman  with 
the  tassels  on  his  shoulders  a-standing  at  the  shop  door ;  he 
is  n’t  in  a  hurry  like  the  rest/’  said  Eppie,  in  some  distress  at 
her  father’s  bewilderment,  and  ill  at  ease,  besides,  amidst  the 
noise,  the  movement,  and  the  multitude  of  strange  indifferent 
faces. 

“Eh,  my  child,  he  won’t  know  anything  about  it,”  said 
Silas ;  “  gentlefolks  did  n’t  ever  go  up  the  Yard.  But  happen 
somebody  can  tell  me  which  is  the  way  to  Prison  Street,  where 
the  jail  is.  I  know  the  way  out  o’  that  as  if  I’d  seen  it 
yesterday.” 

With  some  difficulty,  after  many  turnings  and  new  inqui¬ 
ries,  they  reached  Prison  Street ;  and  the  grim  walls  of  the 
jail,  the  first  object  that  answered  to  any  image  in  Silas’s 
memory,  cheered  him  with  the  certitude,  which  no  assurance 
of  the  town’s  name  had  hitherto  given  him,  that  he  was  in  his 
native  place. 

“Ah,”  he  said,  drawing  a  long  breath,  “there’s  the  jail, 
Eppie ;  that’s  just  the  same:  I  aren’t  afraid  now.  It’s  the 
third  turning  on  the  left  hand  from  the  jail  doors  — ■  that ’s  the 
way  we  must  go.” 

“  Oh,  what  a  dark  ugly  place  !  ”  said  Eppie.  “  How  it  hides 
the  sky !  It ’s  worse  than  the  workhouse.  I ’m  glad  you 
don’t  live  in  this  town  now,  father.  Is  Lantern  Yard  like 
this  street  ?  ” 

“  My  precious  child,”  said  Silas,  smiling,  “  it  is  n’t  a  big 
street  like  this,  I  never  was  easy  i’  this  street  myself,  but  I 
was  fond  o’  Lantern  Yard.  The  shops  here  are  all  altered,  I 
think  —  I  can’t  make  ’em  out;  but  I  shall  know  the  turning, 
because  it’s  the  third.” 

“  Here  it  is,”  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  satisfaction,  as  they  camt 
to  a  narrow  alley.  “  And  then  we  must  go  to  the  left  again, 
and  then  straight  for’ard  for  a  bit,  up  Shoe  Lane  :  and  then 
we  shall  be  at  the  entry  next  to  the  o’erhanging  window,  where 
there ’s  the  nick  in  the  road  for  the  water  to  run.  Eh,  I  can 
see  it  all.” 

“  Oh  father,  I ’m  like  as  if  I  was  jtifled,”  said  Eppie.  “  I 
eould  n’t  ha’  thought  as  any  foLki  lived  ’’  ffiis  way,  so  close 


398 


SILAS  MARNER. 


together.  How  pretty  the  Stone-pits  ’nil  look  when  we  get 
back !  ” 

“  It  looks  comical  to  me,  child,  now  —  and  smells  bad.  I 
can’t  think  as  it  usened  to  smell  so.” 

Here  and  there  a  sallow,  begrimed  face  looked  out  from  a 
gloomy  doorway  at  the  strangers,  and  increased  Eppie’s  un¬ 
easiness,  so  that  it  was  a  longed-for  relief  when  they  issued 
from  the  alleys  into  Shoe  Lane,  where  there  was  a  broader 
strip  of  sky. 

“  Dear  heart !  ”  said  Silas,  “  why,  there ’s  people  coming  out 
o’  the  Yard  as  if  they’d  been  to  chapel  at  this  time  o’  day  — 
a  weekday  noon  !  ” 

Suddenly  he  started  and  stood  still  with  a  look  of  distressed 
amazement,  that  alarmed  Eppie.  They  were  before  an  open¬ 
ing  in  front  of  a  large  factory,  from  which  men  and  women 
were  streaming  for  their  mid-day  meal. 

“  Father,”  said  Eppie,  clasping  his  arm,  “  what ’s  the 
matter  ?” 

But  she  had  to  speak  again  and  again  before  Silas  could 
answer  her. 

“  It ’s  gone,  child,”  he  said,  at  last,  in  strong  agitation  — 

Lantern  Yard ’s  gone.  It  must  ha’  been  here,  because  here’s 
the  house  with  the  o’erhanging  window  —  I  know  that  —  it’s 
just  the  same ;  but  they’ve  made  this  new  opening;  and  see 
that  big  factory  !  It ’s  all  gone  —  chapel  and  all.” 

‘‘Come  into  that  little  brush-shop  and  sit  down,  father  — 
they  ’ll  let-  you  sit  down,”  said  Eppie,  always  on  the  watch 
lest  one  of  her  father’s  strange  attacks  should  come  on. 
“  Perhaps  the  people  can  tell  you  all  about  it.” 

But  neither  from  the  brush-maker,  who  had  come  to  Shoe 
Lane  only  ten  years  ago,  when  the  factory  was  already  built, 
nor  from  any  other  source  within  his  reach,  could  Silas  learn 
anything  of  the  old  Lantern  Yard  friends,  or  of  Mr.  Paston 
the  minister. 

“The  old  place  is  all  swep’  away,”  Silas  said  to  Dolly  Win- 
throp  on  the  night  of  his  return  —  “the  little  graveyard  and 
everything.  The  old  home ’s  gone ;  I ’ve  no  home  but  this 
now.  I  shall  never  know  whether  they  got  at  the  truth  o’  the 


SILAS  MARNER. 


399 


robbery,  nor  whether  Mr.  Paston  could  ha’  given  me  any  light 
about  the  drawing  o’  the  lots.  It’s  dark  to  me,  Mrs.  Win- 
throp,  that  is ;  I  doubt  it  ’ll  be  dark  to  the  last.” 

“Well,  yes,  Master  Marner,”  said  Dolly,  who  sat  with  a 
placid  listening  face,  now  bordered  by  gray  hairs ;  “  I  doubt  it 
may.  It ’s  the  will  o’  Them  above  as  a  many  things  should  be 
dark  to  us ;  but  there ’s  some  things  as  I ’ve  never  felt  i’  the 
dark  about,  and  they  ’re  mostly  what  comes  i’  the  day’s  work. 
You  were  hard  done  by  that  once,  Master  Marner,  and  it  seems 
as  you’ll  never  know  the  rights  of  it;  but  that  doesn’t  hinder 
there  being  a  rights,  Master  Marner,  for  all  it ’s  dark  to  you 
and  me.” 

“No,”  said  Silas,  “no;  that  doesn’t  hinder.  Since  the  time 
the  child  was  sent  to  me  and  I ’ve  come  to  love  her  as  myself, 
I ’ve  had  light  enough  to  trusten  by ;  and  now  she  says  she  ’ll 
never  leave  me,  I  think  I  shall  trusten  till  I  die.” 


♦ 


CONCLUSION. 

There  was  one  time  of  the  year  which  was  held  in  Raveloe 
to  be  especially  suitable  for  a  wedding.  It  was  when  the  great 
lilacs  and  laburnums  in  the  old-fashioned  gardens  showed  their 
golden  and  purple  wealth  above  the  lichen-tinted  walls,  and 
when  there  were  calves  still  young  enough  to  want  bucketfuls 
of  fragrant  milk.  People  were  not  so  busy  then  as  they  must 
become  when  the  full  cheese-making  and  the  mowing  had  set 
in  ;  and  besides,  it  was  a  time  when  a  light  bridal  dress  could 
be  worn  with  comfort  and  seen  to  advantage. 

Happily  the  .sunshine  fell  more  warmly  than  usual  on  the 
lilac  tuftg  the  morning  that  Eppie  was  married,  for  her  dress 
was  a  very  light  one.  She  had  often  thought,  though  with  a 
feeling  of  renunciation,  that  the  perfection  of  a  wedding-dress 
would  be  a  white  cotton,  with  the  tiniest  pink  sprig  at  wide 
intervals ;  so  that  when  Mrs.  Godfrey  Cass  begged  to  provide 


400 


SILAS  MARNER. 


one,  and  asked  Eppie  to  choose  what  it  should  be,  previous 
meditation  had  enabled  her  to  give  a  decided  answer  at 
once. 

Seen  at  a  little  distance  as  she  walked  across  the  churchyard 
and  down  the  village,  she  seemed  to  be  attired  in  pure  white, 
and  her  hair  looked  like  the  dash  of  gold  on  a  lily.  One  hand 
was  on  her  husband’s  arm,  and  with  the  other  she  clasped  the 
hand  of  her  father  Silas. 

“  You  won’t  be  giving  me  away,  father,”  she  had  said  before 
they  went  to  church ;  ‘‘  you  ’ll  only  be  taking  Aaron  to  be  a 
son  to  you.” 

Dolly  Winthrop  walked  behind  with  her  husband ;  and 
there  ended  the  little  bridal  procession. 

There  were  many  eyes  to  look  at  it,  and  Miss  Priscilla  Lara . 
meter  was  glad  that  she  and  her  father  had  happened  to  drive 
up  to  the  door  of  the  Red  House  just  in  time  to  see  this  prettji 
sight.  They  had  come  to  keep  Nancy  company  to-day,  because 
Mr.  Cass  had  had  to  go  away  to  Lytherley,  for  special  reasons. 
That  seemed  to  be  a  pity,  for  otherwise  he  might  have  gone, 
as  Mr.  Crackenthorp  and  Mr.  Osgood  certainly  would,  to  look 
on  at  the  wedding-feast  which  he  had  ordered  at  the  Rainbow, 
naturally  feeling  a  great  interest  in  the  weaver  who  had  been 
wronged  by  one  of  his  own  family. 

“  I  could  ha’  wished  Nancy  had  had  the  luck  to  find  a  child 
like  that  and  bring  her  up,”  said  Priscilla  to  her  father,  as 
they  sat  in  the  gig ;  I  should  ha’  had  something  young  to 
think  of  then,  besides  the  lambs  and  the  calves.” 

‘‘Yes,  my  dear,  yes,”  said  Mr.  Lammeter ;  “one  feels  that 
as  one  gets  older.  Things  look  dim  to  old  folks  :  they ’d  need 
have  some  young  eyes  about  ’em,  to  let  ’em  know  the  world  ’a 
the  same  as  it  used  to  be.” 

Nancy  came  out  now  to  welcome  her  father  and  sister ;  and 
the  wedding  group  had  passed  on  beyond  the  Red  House  to 
the  humbler  part  of  the  village. 

Dolly  Winthrop  was  the  first  to  divine  that  old  Mr.  Macey, 
who  had  been  set  in  his  arm-chair  outside  his  own  door,  would 
expect  some  special  notice  as  they  passed,  since  he  was  too 
old  to  be  at  the  wedding-feast. 


SILAS  MARNER. 


401 


"  Mr.  Macey 's  looking  for  a  word  from  us,”  said  Dolly ; 
^  he  ’ll  be  hurt  if  we  pass  him  and  say  nothing  —  and  him  so 
racked  with  rheumatiz.” 

So  they  turned  aside  to  shake  hands  with  the  old  man.  He 
had  looked  forward  to  the  occasion,  and  had  his  premeditated 
speech, 

“Well,  Master  Mariier,”  he  said,  in  a  voice  that  quavered  a 
good  deal,  “  I ’ve  lived  to  see  my  words  come  true.  I  was  the 
first  to  say  there  was  no  harm  in  you,  though  your  looks  might 
be  again’  you ;  and  I  was  the  first  to  say  you ’d  get  your  money 
back.  And  it ’s  nothing  but  rightful  as  you  should.  And  I ’d 
ha’  said  the  ‘  Amens,’  and  willing,  at  the  holy  matrimony ;  but 
Tookey ’s  done  it  a  good  while  now,  and  I  hope  you  ’ll  have 
none  the  worse  luck.” 

In  the  open  yard  before  the  E-ainbow  the  party  of  guests 
were  already  assembled,  though  it  was  still  nearly  an  hour 
before  the  appointed  feast-time.  But  by  this  means  they 
could  not  only  enjoy  the  slow  advent  of  their  pleasure ;  they 
had  also  ample  leisure  to  talk  of  Silas  Marner’s  strange  hiS' 
tory,  and  arrive  by  due  degrees  at  the  conclusion  that  he  had 
brought  a  blessing  on  himself  by  acting  like  a  father  to  a 
lone  motherless  child.  Even  the  farrier  did  not  negative  this 
sentiment :  on  the  contrary,  ne  took  it  up  as  peculiarly  his 
own,  and  invited  any  hardy  person  present  to  contradict  him. 
But  he  met  with  no  contradiction  ;  and  all  differences  among 
the  company  were  merged  in  a  general  agreement  with  Mr. 
Snell’s  sentiment,  that  when  a  man  had  deserved  his  good 
luck,  it  was  the  part  of  his  neighbors  to  wish  him  joy. 

As  the  bridal  group  approached,  a  hearty  cheer  was  raised 
in  the  Bainbow  yard  ;  and  Ben  Winthrop,  whose  jokes  liad 
retained  their  acceptable  flavor,  found  it  agreeable  to  turn 
in  there  and  receive  congratulations ;  not  requiring  the  pro¬ 
posed  interval  of  quiet  at  the  Stone-pits  )efore  joining  the 
company. 

Eppie  had  a  larger  garuen  than  she  lad  ever  expected  there 
now ;  and  in  other  ways  there  had  been  alterations  at  the 
expense  of  Mr.  Cass,  the  landlord,  to  suit  Silas’s  larger  family. 
For  he  and  Eppi6>  had  declared  that  they  would  rather  stay  at 

VtVL.  TI.  . 


SILAS  MARKER, 


the  Stone-pits  than  go  to  any  new  home.  The  garden  was 
fenced  with  stones  on  two  sides,  but  in  front  there  was  an 
open  fence,  through  which  the  flowers  shone  with  answering 
gladness,  as  the  four  united  people  came  within  sight  of  them, 
“  Oh  father,”  said  Eppie,  “  what  a  pretty  home  ours  is  1  I 
think  nobody  could  be  happier  than  we  are.” 


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